Twenty Things That Make The World Go 'Round
by eva-writes
Summary: Kata Potter has nothing left when she discovers her past, and her older brother leaves Little Whinging for his first year at Hogwarts. Nothing, that is, but a mysterious assignment from an unorthodox teacher that will take her on her own adventures. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**One: Answers, and why I won't get them. **

There are a lot of ways I could begin my story. I could tell you about myself, for one, but that wouldn't be much fun for you, and you'd just find it all out eventually anyway. Maybe I could talk about why I've chosen to give you my story, when I'm not mentioned anywhere else… But the reasons are obvious. Everyone wants their story told. Everyone wants to be written.

Yeah, there are a lot of things I could say here, but none of them will really express who I am, or the person I became after all this happened to me. So, after a long time of thinking, I've come up with a way to state my beginning.

I am Kata. This is where my story starts.

***

_I run down the long, polished platform, watching the train race into the open distance__, leaving me behind, frantically running. __I try to scream, but my throat is dry like desert rocks. I don't even know what I'd say if I could scream…_

Don't go…

_The oak boards of the platform fold onto themselves, sliding aside. My feet struggle to find a stable place to stand, but there is none. I fall through, finally able to scream as I plummet. I expect the blackness to go on forever, but instead, there is a new color.__ Purple. An ocean of bright, bubbly purple water surrounds me. But I don't feel wet. _

_I see an old man with a strange lavender cape float past. _

"_Is this real?" I ask, my voice clear despite the water I can't feel. _

_He laughs, a pleasant sound that still __fills my insides with dread. "Of course not," he chortles. "This is all a dream." _

I'm then jolted back to reality.

Stupid reality.

"Kata? Kata Potter?" I'm not sure where the voice is coming from. Where did all the purple go? "Would you like to tell us all why you're asleep?" Mr Mendota's soft voice roused me from sleep. Slowly, I lifted my head from the fake wood of my school desk and glanced around. Twenty-one faces stared openly back.

"Crap," I muttered. I'd fallen asleep again. I'd also been caught... again. So, there wasn't much else to say. Crap.

"What was that?" Mr Mendota asked, leaning in as if to hear me better. Snickers and giggles echoed in the open classroom. I paused briefly to glare at the kids around me, and then turned my attention back to Mr Mendota. He stood above me in a manner that would have made a three-year-old pee in her pants, and maybe some ten-year-olds. But, albeit unknowingly, I'd faced worse. Besides, Mr Mendota really wasn't that intimidating. Sure, he was tall, but he also had a strangely innocent face and neatly parted brown hair. His pants are _creased_. I find it very difficult to be afraid of a guy who irons his pants.

"I said, I was up all night saving puppies from evil princesses, Mr Mendota," I lied sweetly, with a sickening smile to match. His eyes narrowed at the sarcasm in my voice. The effort was wasted, though, because mostly it just made me want to burst out laughing. Instead, I shook a stray wave of brilliant red hair out of my face and matched his glare evenly. He gave up, turned around, and rubbed his temples.

Mr Mendota rubs his temples a lot when he's around me. I don't know why.

"Kata, this is the third time this month I've caught you sleeping in my class," he announced warily.

"Very good!" I chirped back. I don't like people who think they're above me just because they have a "diploma" or "haven't been threatened with expulsion multiple times". It annoys me. Especially now…

"You aren't doing yourself any favours by slacking off," he warned, sitting down at his desk and eyeing the class.

"And you aren't doing yourself any favours by making an example of me in front of the class, because you know that it has no effect whatsoever," I snapped. "Just go on teaching whatever it is you were teaching, and I'll pretend to care." I meant it as an honest suggestion, but by the way his eyes narrowed, I could tell he took it some other way.

So did the others, I kid you not; there was an audible intake of breath from the class. Melanie, the blonde girl who sits next to me, looked at me with wide eyes, like I'd just committed a capital offence.

Mr Mendota was quiet for a long time. He placed his elbows on the desk, folded his hands neatly, and rested his chin on top of them. Some people can always tell when something big and potentially bad is coming, and I definitely can. The look Mr Mendota gave the class radiated potential badness.

Or, you know. I could just be a paranoid ten-year-old who would rather be asleep right now.

He stayed in that position for at least five minutes, just sitting there and calmly staring at us. My classmates fidgeted, wondering what was going to happen. I just sat there, looking around the room and whistling softly under my breath. However, I was thinking just as much as Mr Mendota was.

I thought about why I was there in the first place. Not like divine creation, or anything, but why I was still in Little Whinging. I _should've_ be somewhere much better than there, proving that I could do impossible things. But there are all these rules that I don't understand, about how I have to be a certain age, and crap like that.

I was sort of going crazy there, and sometimes I don't know why. Sure, I missed my brother, but that was a very small part of it. A bigger part is that I was left behind. People thought, oh, she'll be fine, what's the worst that could happen in a small town like that? And I guess, on some level, they're right. Nothing terrible has happened yet. Nothing but feeling a little alone.

Which never killed anyone, probably.

Mr Mendota stood up slowly from his desk, straightening his plaid tie and pivoting to face his eager students, and me. He crossed the room, still moving at turtle speed, and opened the big doors of the supply cupboard. Reaching in, he ran a long finger down the row of shelves, before finding what he was looking for. Carefully, he slid a cardboard box from the cupboard and carried it back to his desk. He set it down, and steadily and unhurriedly turned to us.

A devilish grin spread across his face, and suddenly his movements were very quick and choppy, instead of slow and flowing. He snatched the foam eraser from his polished desk and wiped it three times over the blackboard, erasing our lesson about grammar.

Mr Mendota spun wildly around on one toe, stopping when he was directly in front of his sort of freaked out class, and me. His eyes were wide, shining brilliantly. There was a sort of insane look about his expression.

"Forget everything I've ever taught you about English or grammar!" he shouted, waving the eraser around. "Quickly, do it now!"

They looked at each other, totally confused.

I, however, was fascinated; I leaned forward, with a curious expression replacing my usual indifferent one. Let's watch, boys and girls. I'm interested to see where this is going...

"I don't see anyone doing what I'm asking!" Mr Mendota announced loudly, glaring at us. Now his excited eyes glinted to the point of madness. Cool. "Close your eyes -- forget all of it!"

A couple of people looked terrified and shot nervous glances towards the door like trapped mice. Some hesitantly closed their eyes, uncertain frowns puckering their lips. With one last glance at the others, I shut my eyes too.

Let's see, forget everything I learned in this room…

That was quick.

I opened my eyes again, to find Melanie looking at me, scared out of her mind. I turned to gaze back, and saw my wide, round green eyes reflected in her dull hazel ones. Her brows nettled together, and she bit her lip hard.

"Are you done?" Mr Mendota shouted, slightly slurring his words together. He hopped back and forth, from one foot to the other, gangly arms flapping at his sides. His smile stretched the sides of his face, and he looked absolutely insane.

But I live on insanity.

There was a dull murmur from the class. Sherrie Parker had taken out her sweater and was hiding under it, doing some sort of deep breathing exercises. It's so much _fun _to watch people as they're forced to deviate from their normal routines. It totally throws them off.

"I said, are you done?" Mr Mendota hollered, and Sherrie twitched wildly in her seat. Mr Mendota was breathing hard too, but it wasn't from fear.

He got ready to speak, taking a deep lungful of air and grinning

"Next year, you will all break apart," Mr Mendota began. "Some of you will stay in town, go to the upper school. Some of you will go away. In my class, I want to prepare you for the world. This is where you make a decision to learn. I want to see what _you _can do. What Alec can do." He gestured to the boy with the pudding-bowl haircut who enjoys sticking me with a pencil and hissing, _Poke a Potter._ "What Winnie can do." Mr Mendota waved a hand to Winnie, with her six little ringlet curls and eager mud-brown eyes. "What… er, Sherrie can do."

Sherrie twitched under her sweater, the metals legs of her chair scraping against the tiled floor as she shook.

His eyes, behind silver-rimmed rectangular glasses, traveled slowly across the classroom to rest on me. Though he didn't say anything, I could see the sentence forming in his mind. _What Kata can do._

What can Kata do?

The question echoed in my mind, ricocheting again and again against the walls of my brain. Everybody in my life was looking for answers. Including me. But it seemed like I was the only one who wasn't getting them.

"The assignment," Mr M continued, pacing slowly back and forth in front of his desk, "is entitled '_Twenty Things That Make the World Go 'Round_'."

I waited for him to say more, but he didn't. He stopped pacing, and sat on the edge of his desk, smirking at us.

"Whatever. I'll bite," I grumbled. "How does the stupid assignment work?"

"That, Miss Potter, is entirely up to you," Mr Mendota announced giddily. "All I want you to do is answer this question: what are the twenty things that make your world go 'round?"

Now, here's the thing about me. People think I'm really blunt, and rude, but I'm actually the opposite; I never do or say what I really feel. For instance, this assignment thingy sounded pretty interesting to me. I'm a firm believer in the 'no rules' concept.

But about a month ago, I closed up. So instead of asking for more information, I rolled my eyes. It was the other kids who asked.

"But how do we do it then?"

"You mean, like, gravity and stuff?"

"Should we make a list?"

Mr Mendota shrugged, with this big huge smile still on his face. I scowled, and this time I meant it. I had enough on my sleep-deprived mind without a project that I had to figure out all by myself.

While Mr Mendota fielded questions from a couple of girls who were worried that their grade was going to take some sort of downward plummet thanks to the lack of instruction here, I watched the clock. I sort of liked the clock in Mr Mendota's classroom. It didn't look like the clock most other teachers have, with a perfectly round body and little black hands. Mr Mendota's clock was silver and didn't really have a shape. It's more of a blob. And the numbers were all different colours, and instead of a plain "12", it said "2x6".

Only three more minutes until I was free. Well, maybe free was the wrong word. I was out of one torture and into another. I never felt free in Little Whinging anymore. I used to. Despite my… guardians, I was pretty happy. I'd made this place my home, loving the small town feel and the quirks that some people hated. It was the perfect place for someone like me.

But now I hated it, because it represented everything I couldn't have. I couldn't go to school, or at least not the school I wanted. I couldn't see my brother. And I couldn't trust anyone.

Not the best arrangement in the world, but it's not like I planned on sticking around for long.

The sharp noise of the bell ringing pulled me from my thoughts. I stood, grabbing my black canvas messenger bag and pulling on my tattered jean jacket before the bell had finished ringing. There wasn't much out on my desk, except for a kelly green notebook that was basically the most valuable thing I owned. I stuffed it in the bag, making for the door, while my classmates still packed their bags and talked animatedly.

"After class, Kata," Mr Mendota murmured when I was close enough to hear.

I glowered at the wall while the other kids filed out in a straight line. Mr Mendota gave everyone a notebook from the box. Maybe we did have to make a list, then, if it involved paper. Or maybe he was trying to fool us, and we were supposed to bring in a box of the twenty things we needed.

Or maybe there wasn't any hint at all. Maybe we really were supposed to do the whole thing by ourselves.

After the room was cleared except for Mr Mendota and me, he sighed and turned to me. I shifted my gaze from the off-white wall to him.

He eyed me in a strange way, like he was trying to memorise my features. He stared at my face for a long time, and I met his eyes evenly. He fixed on mine, too, like if he looked hard enough, he would see my soul.

I wondered briefly what my soul would look like.

"Kata," Mr Mendota began. He didn't say my name like he was talking to me. He said it like he was labeling something, in a scientific manner. "Kata."

This time he said it like he was addressing me. I didn't say anything back.

"Kata, what's going on?" he asked. His voice was weirdly intense as he stared at me.

"Well, the economy's not doing so hot, and-"

He cut me off. "I know that one. I mean, what's going on _with you_."

I didn't actually say anything to that either.

"I'm worried about you." He uncrossed his arms, stretching one hand halfway out to me in a kind gesture. I moved away on instinct.

"Why?" I snorted. "I'm fine."

He gave me a speculative look. "Really? You're fine? Kata, you're falling asleep on your desk, your grades aren't great, and you won't talk to anyone! When you were absent last week, I called your aunt, and she didn't even know you hadn't left the house! Something about a rope outside your window!"

She knows about that? Darn it.

I shrugged. "She doesn't talk to me either," I announced, a little defensively.

"Why?" he pressed ardently. "What's going on? Is there something at home, or what? You aren't happy, Kata. I see you, hiding out under the slide at recess, not talking to the others, not even making eye contact!"

"Maybe I'm shy," I suggested, rolling my eyes.

Mr Mendota gave an exasperated groan. "Oh, yes, you're dreadfully shy, telling me off in front of everyone else. That's not it, Kata. There must be something. Something at home, or with you're brother, or something. I saw you in previous years, Kata. You're a brilliant, friendly person."

I wondered if I had a twin walking around. Maybe I'd had friends before, but I wouldn't call myself friendly.

"Mr Mendota," I spoke very slowly and clearly, enunciating every word, "every single thing is fine. Just fine. I am a perfectly normal person with no problems. My home life is fantastic, I have friends, and _I am happy_. Okay?"

I truly amaze myself sometimes. It all sounded genuine. If I were watching from another room, I would be totally convinced that whoever was saying this meant all of it. But lying is just something I have to do, and do well.

He sighed and rubbed his temples again. "Fine. Don't talk. Just so you know…"

He reached into the box on his desk and pulled out a green notebook, holding it out to me. "Twenty Things That Make the World Go 'Round. Maybe you'll find them, maybe you won't. But you will find something. Be careful… you might even find yourself."

I snorted and took the notebook. "Maybe I'm not looking."

Then I strode briskly from the room, shaking my head. Find myself. How on earth does a person find themselves? Sounds like a fortune cookie. People know who they are; they just try to hide it sometimes, but they always know where. 'Maybe you'll allow yourself to be found', would be better.

I'd had a confrontation like that almost every day. People apparently noticed you simply because you weren't there to be noticed.

I sighed as I walked through the open doors of the school outside. Kids were everywhere in the courtyard. Jump ropes struck the pavement with rhythmic slapping noises. Balls bounced with rubbery sounds and everywhere people were talking.

I hitched my bag higher up on my shoulder and began the walk through the yard. The upper school is right next to the lower school, and everyday when the final bells rings, kids from kindergarten to high school pour out the doors. There's hopscotch and kickball on the lower school's side, and picnic benches and gossip and tonsil hockey on the upper school's side. There is a definite line.

Just like I do every day, I walked down the centre of it, not stepping onto either side. High School student ignored me, and elementary school kids ignored me. The perfect system.

But today I heard my name, called out in a trilling little voice from the lower school's side.

"Kata!"

Slowly, I turned to see Winnie, the girl with the six tight ringlet curls, and a bunch of her friends. They had a jump rope, but none of them were paying attention to it anymore as I met Winnie's gaze. She beckoned for me to come over.

"Hey!" she chirped, waving a hand. Winnie looked right at my face, but her friends examined me from top to bottom. I was a bug under a microscope. The kind of microscope that lights up, too, adding uncomfortable heat to the pressure of being looked at. Stared at. Gawked at.

"Hello." My voice was monotonous, low and even. Winnie grinned at the sound of it. She looked like she was about to say something else, but a girl with a high blonde ponytail and white flip-flops broke in.

"Nice outfit." The girl smirked. Her name was Tonya, or Tammie, or something. I glared, but tried to remember what I was wearing without looking down at it. I remembered putting on red shorts, and out of the corner of my eye I could see that my long-sleeved shirt was periwinkle blue.

"Yeah," a skinny brunette with a big nose commented. "Nice shoes. I haven't seen a pair like that in a while."

I knew what shoes I was wearing, the same shoes I wore everyday. Scuffed, purple Converse high-tops. They were covered in two years worth of dirt and graffiti. In fact, the toe of the left shoe still said 'Jilly BFF' in red ink. I could see Jilly hiding out in the back, avoiding my eyes. Her long, curly blonde hair was pulled back in a white-gold poof, and she was dressed from head to pointy toe in pink glitter.

"Anyway," Winnie continued, her mouth slightly pursed in frustration with her friends for insulting me. "Twenty Things. What a weird assignment."

"One word for it," I muttered. I didn't want to agree with Winnie.

"What's your necklace mean?" Tonya/Tammie asked loudly, pointing to the silver chain around my neck. A smooth, pale pink stone dangled from it.

"It was given to me by an old hobo when I was six, I answered coolly without missing a beat. Then I turned back to Winnie. "You were saying?"

She looked a little taken aback by my explanation of the necklace, but shook her head and went on, "I was just wondering what… what happened, I mean, I haven't seen you brother around. Where is… what happened?"

I was prepared for this, but that didn't mean I liked it any more than the first time someone asked me. Because everyone wondered. Every nosy neighbour, every bold schoolmate had asked me.

I cleared my throat and gave my practiced answer. Trust nobody, I remembered. Keep the secret.

"He got a scholarship to a school in Scotland," I replied evenly.

And with that, I turned and resumed walking towards the bike rack right down the borderline.

Humph. Scholarship. Harry didn't need a scholarship. He was a wizard.

Which made me a witch.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: So, I'm sorry I didn't put any author's notes on last time. Here's my first fiction (on this site) and… I don't have any reviews. Anyone want to fix that? ;) Just some background info on the story: Kata is like my best friend. She's been in my head for three years now, and I'm sorry I didn't start to write her stuff sooner, because I happen to have a seven-part story planned for her, and I'll most likely be thirty by the time it's done. And, here's the fig one: I beg you not to disregard this story as just another "Harry has a sister" plot. The story (at least for Part 1) takes place in the Muggle world, and I'm adding so much, and adapting… a lot. Read on, please, and review. It would make me happy inside.

***********************************

There are two ways that I see magic, often at the same time.

The first one is that magic is the best thing that ever happened to me. I waited my whole life for something important and wonderful to happen. I was tired of being ignored at school and criticized at home. And I was through with looking at the world and often having a thin sheet of a daydream glaze over it.

Magic was my answer; it was the way that I knew I was special. Maybe I wasn't the ideal child that every mother longed for, but that was okay. I'd had my own parents, and they were special too. My daydreams became more fantasy than just mere fiction, leaping further away from the boundaries of reality. Friendly giants and beautiful unicorns colored my mind. It was a way for me to escape.

Of course, that didn't last long.

Magic is also the most horrible thing I've ever seen, for two reasons. First, I knew there was a flipside to the delightfully eccentric characters I'd met and the fantastic things I'd observed. People could take magic and do terrible things with it. Perfectly normal people, kids who just wanted power and ended up letting it run wild. They didn't stop it, and grew hungry for it, pushing the edges of logic and reason away to get it. They created an army, and struck down obstacles. And everything they needed, all the things they wanted and so much more, was theirs.

No one ever stopped it, not ever, but they tried. No one ever stopped it, and it grew powerful enough to wreck my life, along with a couple thousand others.

How can I not blame magic for my parents' deaths?

The other reason I hate magic is because it isn't mine. That probably makes me sound just as horrible as all those power-hungry demonic maniacs, but the way I want magic is so different.

Imagine with me for a second, if you will. You are a ten-year-old girl. You have been told that your parents were worthless drunks, the reason you're here is their fault, and you will amount to nothing, just like them.

Then, _knock knock!_ Some giant guy you've never met before shows up and tells you everything. You are not a nobody. Neither is anyone in your family. You are special, and much more powerful than all the people who held you down.

And, bonus points, 'cause this guy gives your cousin a tail like a pig. It's a very good story, and I'll tell you later.

Suddenly everything is different, and so many things are being revealed to you. You're having so much fun.

And then they rip it all out from under you. Sorry, Kata, just kidding… it's just Harry. You have to wait.

So, I want magic. You always want what you can't have.

And that is what I think about magic.

I sat in the steamy kitchen of Flinker's -- in my opinion, the town's best restaurant. It was the middle of the six o'clock dinner rush hour, and the place was hopping. Pans clattered and boiling water bubbled… food sizzled as it hit the cold white plates. Aaron shouted for more rolls for table ten, and Delia yelped as hot pepper sauce sloshed onto her apron.

It's Jeremy's dad's place, and I've been hanging out here since I could walk. The notebook Mr. Mendota had given to me was open on my lap, and I was doodling in it for something to do. It had been three days, and I had absolutely no idea how I was going to start my project. The first thing I tried was gathering twenty things I used every day, but most of them were completely boring, like a toothbrush or my bike.

The problem was that I didn't have twenty things that made my world go 'round. My life was so… normal. Besides the whole magic thing, which I don't count. I woke up, got dressed, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair. Rode my bike to school, wasted eight or so hours. Avoided going home for as long as I can.

It was the same thing everyday -- I don't need a list to tell me that. I don't need a box full of things to tell me that. And I certainly don't need Mr. Mendota to tell me that.

I sighed and pulled out the other green notebook. The only way I could tell the two notebooks apart was the Hello Kitty sticker in the corner of the older one, the one I said was valuable. Closing the Twenty Things notebook, I opened the other and put pencil to paper.

_Dear Friend,  
Mr. Mendota told me to find the twenty things that make my world go 'round. How am I supposed to do that if I don't even know which world I belong to? I've shut out this world, and my world shut me out._

-Kata

No, it's not a diary! I don't keep diaries. Girls with blonde curls, and bubblegum, and canopy beds keep diaries. It's just a notebook.

"Kata!" I heard Mr. Flinker call. "Grab an apron! I need you to stir this!"

I smiled and shoved both notebooks back in my bag, snatching my apron from its peg, along with my footstool. Because I need a footstool.

Four feet two inches is too short for a nine-year-old, let alone a ten-year-old. I was way to short, and way too thin.

"Clockwise," Mr. Flinker instructed, handing me a long wooden spoon and pointing to a large vat of sauce.

"Does it matter?" I asked, but obediently stirred clockwise.

He laughed. "Of course it matters! It's the details that make this world turn, Kata!"

Bam. It just hit me like a freaking lightning bolt.

I dropped the spoon out of shock, and turned around. "What did you say?"

"Stir!" he cried, noticing that I stopped. I picked up the spoon and asked again.

"About things that make the world go 'round… what did you say?"

"Details," he announced. "I believe you are a fan of the Six-Cheese Salad?"

I nodded.

"Did you know that every piece of lettuce I put in that salad is exactly seven and a half inches long? Did you know that it is Aaron's job is to personally go through the bins of cheese and select the slices worthy of being grated into my salad?" He smiled. "Of course, I go through and check again afterwards, because Aaron just doesn't have a nose for cheese."

"It's a serious personality flaw," Aaron put in, sighing from behind a different oven.

"So you're saying that it's the details that matter?" I asked, still stirring.

"Yep," Mr. Flinker nodded. "For instance, that sauce requires thirty-four more seconds of stirring. No more, no less."

I set the timer above the stove. "How'd you figure that out?"

"Well, I look at the color of the sauce versus the amount of applied heat-"

I cut him off. "No, not that. How do you know that it's the details that make the world go 'round?"

"The fruits of my efforts, young grasshopper," Mr. Flinker announced, and the timer beeped. I hopped down from the stool.

"Mind if I use that for a school project?" I asked, switching off the burner.

"You're doing schoolwork?" Jeremy asked incredulously, coming into the kitchen carrying a bucket of dirty plates and dumping them into the dull brown dishwater.

"My thoughts exactly!" Mr. Flinker boomed. I scowled. "Tell you what… you can quote me if you stop stealing food from the storerooms and asking me to sign your report cards in place of your aunt."

My scowl deepened. "You can't prove that was me stealing food."

"So it's a deal."

"Deal," I muttered. He laughed again.

See why I love this place? It's absolutely perfect. Mr. Flinker is so big and loud and exuberant, and he makes me feel loud and exuberant too. Jeremy is my best friend, and even though he's a year older than me, and a boy, we still hang out here after school.

"Speaking of food, efforts, and smelling cheese… Isn't it time you went home?" Mr. Flinker asked.

I avoided his eyes. "My shift isn't up."

"You don't work here," Mr. Flinker countered.

"I'm in the hall of fame. You can't kick me out," I objected.

"You're in the background of a picture of a giant hot dog."

"The customer might ask for the chef who stirred the delicious sauce," I suggested.

"I'll tell them that she is so amazingly elusive that she does not see customers."

Jeremy laughed. "I'll walk you out, Kat."

We walked out the back door to the large alley behind the restaurant. A patch of grass grew under a slit of sunlight, and a rusted basketball hoop stood tall in the center. Jeremy picked up the half deflated basketball from the corner and tossed it to me. I caught it and threw it at the hoop. It fell to the ground halfway, without bouncing

Jeremy shook his hair out of his eyes and picked it up, setting it back in the corner.

"Bikes?" he asked, and I nodded.

I nudged the kickstand out from under my bike and swung my leg over the seat in the same motion. Jeremy did the same with his, and soon we were zooming down Main Street. Yes, Little Whinging actually has a Main Street. It's where most of the businesses and shops are.

We rode silently all the way to Halfman Park. It was nice, in a weird sort of way. No questions. No requirements. No expectations. Just the wind pushing my hair behind me, coloring my cheeks a faint pink, making me want to ride faster and possibly never get off. We passed Quick Mart, the store where my friend Marc works as a bag girl. We passed Freeway, this bar that was made with the divine purpose being a hangout for truckers.

The sky was beginning to turn pink and orange, just starting to set behind the clouds. Everything looked a little brighter, which is strange, because sunset brings darkness. Not light.

Jeremy skidded to a stop by an old bench in the park, and I did the same.

"So, schoolwork?" he asked skeptically.

"Yep," I answered, knowing he would press for details anyway.

"Why now?" he asked.

I shrugged. This was mostly because I didn't have an answer.

"Aren't you, like, failing everything?" he asked.

I bit my lip. "Not everything," I said. "I'm doing okay in art. And Mr. Mendota is weirdly obsessed with me, always watching whatever I do. He's not gonna hold me back."

This was true. The day Mr. Mendota had assigned the list wasn't the first day he'd kept me after class to talk. Sometimes he said he just wanted to talk to me, and he'd bring up the weather, or a book he knew I'd read before. Sometimes he asked why I never did the work. He asked for details about my life outside school. What was the name of the school my brother had gone to? What had I done this weekend? Why did I feel the compulsive need to rip out the pages of the book we were reading in English? Was it because the girl in the book didn't have a mom?

It was tippity-tappity tap-dancing on my last nerve. Because it wasn't because the girl in the book didn't have a mom. It was just a stupid book.

"Why this?" Jeremy continued. "What is it?"

"Twenty things that make the world go 'round," I announced. "I have to find them."

"So, details. Like my dad said," Jeremy guessed.

"Yeah," I murmured. "Hey. What makes your world go 'round?"

He thought for a second. "Hair gel."

That comment deserved nothing but a raised eyebrow, and that's what it got.

"In the upper school," he explained. "Everybody has hair gel. Even the nerds. They just slick it down instead of spiking it up. I would be in serious trouble if I didn't use hair gel."

That comment didn't get anything at all, not even an eyebrow. I was not going to put hair gel in my twenty things. For one, I'd never used it. I don't need hair gel. My hair lays the same way everyday.

"But you didn't answer my question. Why this? You could read a book, or study for a math test, or do something that wouldn't take as much time, if you wanted to start working at school. Why choose the big project that you know you're gonna get sucked into?" Jeremy flicked his hair out of his eyes again and waited for an answer.

I didn't have one. Again. No answers here. Answerless Kata.

"Kata?" he prodded. I sighed.

"I guess… I almost want to prove something to Mr. Mendota. That I can do this. That I even know what my twenty things are."

I assumed Jeremy was raising his eyebrows, but I couldn't see underneath his shaggy hair. "But you don't," he objected. "You wouldn't be asking me about hair gel if you did."

I shrugged again. "Then I guess it'll be a challenge."

"Where are you going to start?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"Where are you going to start looking?" he explained. "For your twenty things?"

"I don't think many of them are going to be tangible," I muttered. "Kind of the point of the assignment, isn't it? We shall look deep inside ourselves..." I trailed off holding my arms aloft like some sort of guru and closing my eyes, turning in the direction of the wind. My hair blew behind me, and Jeremy laughed.

"Can I see what you've got done so far?" he asked, motioning to my bag, which was stuffed inside my bike basket.

"Sure," I said with a shrug. "Hand me that pencil too."

Jeremy grabbed the pencil and the notebook, passing the pencil to me and opening the notebook on his lap. I leaned over and wrote in "Details" over the small sketch I'd done of the kitchen.

"What do you think?" I asked, indicating the drawing.

He turned the notebook sideways. "It kind of looks like my dad's place," he said slowly. "I can definitely tell it's a kitchen." He flipped through a couple more pages (Nothing was there) and then passed the book back to me. "You should stick to drawing those faces. Those are incredible."

I went stiff. "What faces?" I asked slowly.

"I saw a couple in your bag once. A man, with really messy hair, and a lady with long brown hair. She was colored in, but he wasn't. They were like photos, almost."

I avoided his eyes. I hated the Drawings. "Yeah, well. Maybe I'm better at people."

He probably had an answer to that, but just then, the big clock in the park, built to resemble Big Ben, but smaller, began to chime. One bell. Two bells. Three, four, five bells. Six bells, and then… seven.

In the fifteen or so seconds it took those bells to chime, I had gathered my stuff, shoved it all messily into my bag, and hopped on my bike.

"I'm late!" I called as an explanation to a confused Jeremy's yells, and then I put the pedal to the metaphoric metal.

One more time, they'd said, and I would be lucky to get to leave the house for school.

I wasn't afraid of Verno, or even Aunt P. Then again, the only things in this world that fear Aunt P are germs. Anyway, I wasn't afraid. They wouldn't even know I was late if I went through the window…

In the distance, I heard a different sort of bells ring. Church bells…

Crap. Is it Wednesday? I could've sworn it was Tuesday.

I stopped pedaling, and my bike slowed, stopping eventually. I put my foot down to keep from tipping over and looked wildly back and forth between to streets. One was Gulliver Street, which would take me to Magnolia Crescent, and then to Privet Drive. The other was Dashwood Place, which would take me back to Main Street, where I could turn onto Darwin Avenue… and to the church.

This may surprise you, but given the choice, I took Dashwood.

For a church that claims to accept all kinds of people, Darwin Street Church was really strict about the whole 'on time' thing. I was probably too late for that, and going would be useless; it would just delay me more. But I kept pedaling.

I can't explain why I like the church. It isn't even a church – it's an old day-care facility, remodeled and fitted with fuzz worn velvet pews. The sanctuary is actually in the basement, and the first floor is a seldom-used homeless shelter. Little Whinging doesn't have many homeless. I think the 'Welcome to Little Whinging' sign used to say that…

I practically slammed into the bike rack, wedging my tire firmly between two metal rods. I jumped off the bike and hit the ground running.

The building itself is low, with faded yellow paint and dusty windows. There's a long-dead evergreen planted by the door that Mr. Millerton refuses to cut down, because as the church leader, he's supposed to support life of all kinds or something. A pretty good reason, but I can't make myself look at that tree.

The doors were shut, but not locked. I opened them as little as I could and squeezed through, taking a seat in the back where no one would notice.

And by no one, I mean all of the seven people that showed up.

Mr. Millerton was at the front, talking about a special-looking flower he'd seen last week, and how that flower had affected him. He's just Mr. Millerton. Technically, the church is for no specific religion, so we can't call him 'Pastor', or 'Reverend', or 'Rabbi'.

I don't know what religion I'd be, if I had to pick. I read a book about a kid whose dad was Jewish and his mom was Christian, and he had to pick. I couldn't do that.

I don't even know much about what the different religions are about, but I like the ones that involve an afterlife. Reincarnation is just so weird to think about. What if you knew a person, and then they died, and came back as someone else? They wouldn't remember knowing you, and if you ever met them, you wouldn't realize. I don't like that.

Mr. Millerton continued about the flower, "It had its petals reaching towards the sun. Even though it was nighttime, that flower was waiting for the sun to come back. And, in the meantime, in was enjoying the moon."

There's probably some deep meaning behind that. Somewhere.

**Chapter End Notes:**

Awww… Kata's cute, isn't she? Thank you for reading, and I'll try to get the next chapter up much faster! Like… possibly today?

-Eva


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

Hello, again! I hope that this chapter didn't take as long, though I warn you, chapter four might. I hope you enjoy this installment in Kata's story. As always, Azhure is absoulutely wonderful and I don't own Harry Potter. Note: There's something funny going on with what is an isn't in italics. Use your best judgement, guess, because I can't find any way to fix it. To help, all parts that mention Harry are flashbacks, and at the very end, when Jeremy starts talking, that's the present. If you really can't figure it out, let me know and I'll try to edit.

"Kata!" Mr. Mendota exclaimed as I walked into class the next day. I had an electric blue ball cap pulled down over my face to try and hide my brand new purple-black eye. Of course, there was no getting past Super Teacher. "What happened to your eye?"

I swallowed and gave the excuse I'd been using for black eyes for five years, "I'm prone to nosebleeds, and sometimes my eyes swell up. I'm fine."

Then I turned away and quickly walked to my seat. Removing the cap, I shook my hair out. Melanie leaned back, in danger of being smacked in the face by loose red curls.

"Are you in a gang?" she asked. Melanie is always asking me questions like that.

"Yeah, and we're called the Vipers… And you're on our hit list," I informed her. She nodded.

It used to be fun telling Melanie stuff like that, but now she never believes any of it. Last month, I told her I'd placed a bomb under the London Bridge, and she blew a couple gaskets. Now, she just nods, and maybe makes a comment on how there's a twelve-step program for that.

I lifted my fingers and brushed gingerly at my right eye. That's what I get for going to a church where people sing classic rock instead of hymns. That's what I get for coming in late. The bruise on my shin is what I get for fighting back.

While I was unloading my books into my desk, Mr. Mendota walked to the front of the room and cleared his throat to get our attention. He was biting his lip, like I do when I get upset. He looked like he was holding something back, though, and he kept looking at my eye.

"Have any of you gotten started on your twenty things?" he asked. Most of the hands went up, including mine. Well, I'd finished that drawing. And I had "details". Other than that… Zippo.

"Has anyone finished?" he asked. I frowned. Who could have finished?

Seven hands stayed up. Jennie, Laura, Kyle, Shane, Robin, Ann, and Derek had all finished their projects.

Mr. Mendota made them all get up and present what they'd done. Jennie, Shane, and Ann had all made lists. They read them out loud, but most of it was dumb stuff. At least Ann and Shane were honest, putting kid things on there, like action figures, or a ballerina tutu. Jennie's list sounded like her mom had written it. "Love"… "Hope"… "Photographs"… Photographs! Jennie, there are only nine photographs of me in this world, and one of them includes a giant hot dog. No one needs photos.

Kyle had brought in a box of his stuff, like I'd tried, but he hadn't put a toothbrush in, that was for dang sure. His parents must be freaking loaded.

Derek is a hippie-ish boy, with long unkempt hair and baggy tie-dye shirts. I sort of like him. He's interesting. And he occasionally gives me half of his bologna sandwich if I don't have a lunch.

Even if I don't eat meat (though, what is bologna, really?), it's a nice gesture.

Derek's project was my favorite. He'd taken some Styrofoam and carved it into a big '20'. Then he'd painted the '2' red, and the '0' yellow, and had drawn all over them. Derek is a much better artist than me, and the whole effect was pretty cool.

Melanie didn't think so. "What is that?" she whispered.

I glared. "You just got yourself bumped up to Number One on my hit list. Derek's project is the best there, and you know it."

"Where's yours?" she asked with a superior smile.

"Mine is gonna be brilliant. But it'll take a while," I told her.

She snorted. "You don't have a while." Then she pointed to the blackboard.

In the upper left corner, Mr. Mendota had written in big, block letters, _TWENTY THINGS THAT MAKE THE WORLD GO 'ROUND. DUE DECEMBER 19TH. _

It was a few days before Halloween. December 19th was a good month and a half away. I had plenty of time.

And I told her so. Then I took out my Dear Friend notebook and scribbled a letter quickly. Melanie didn't bother to look. I'd been writing in this book since school started, and she knows what will happen if she peeks.

_Dear Friend,_

I'm going to look for my twenty things after school today. But not past seven. My eye really hurts. –Kata

I shoved the notebook into my desk and turned back to the presentations. Robin was just finishing up with her project, which resembled wads of tissue paper glued to a piece of faded blue poster board.

Robin has always been a little off.

Laura came last. She had written a letter to her parents, thanking them for the twenty things they'd done to make her a better person. She read them off in a chipper voice, and a lot of people zoned out. Who writes a letter for a school project?

A letter.

Letter…

***

_It was mid-July, and the hot sun poured through the glass door, streaking the blue and white-checkered tablecloth with rows of light. There were plates off eggs and bacon and potatoes set out on the table, but I was nibbling on a piece of toast and watching the grass sway from side to side in the steamy breeze._

In Little Whinging, it is always one thing or the other: you're either frying in the summer, or freezing into a human Popsicle in the winter. Today it was at least thirty-seven degrees, Celsius, and only nine o' clock. The air conditioner was turned up full blast.

Dudley was wearing normal clothes instead of his uniform, but was still carrying that stupid Smelting stick. As he snorted down about twelve pieces of bacon, I was thinking of ways to try and steal it, because I already had a blossoming bruise on my shin, and a few more on my arms. Some people will tell you that I was baiting him, but I like to think that it was an unprovoked attack, no matter how many of his computer games I did or did not hold hostage.

Anyway. Summer. Hot.

Aunt P was jabbering about Mrs. Rube next door, and how she was sure that those geraniums of hers could not have reached four feet without Miracle Grow. I was about to say that I had certainly reached four feet, and all I was eating was this piece of toast, when I heard the mail slot swish open and flap shut. Letters dropped onto the rug.

"Mail," Aunt P announced, breaking off from her rant and pushing two more fried eggs onto Dudley's plate.

Verno looked up from his paper and grunted, "Dudley. Mail."

Dudley let out an exaggerated whine, pointed a pudgy finger at Harry and said, "Make him get it!"

"Harry. Mail," Verno muttered, turning the page of his paper with a rustle. I looked up, eyeing the Smelting stick and wondering if this was my chance.

Harry waved a hand back at Dudley and muttered, "Make him get it."

Verno lowered his paper and exclaimed, "Hit him with your Smelting stick!"

While Dudley hunted for his stick (which was now under the table at my feet), Harry wordlessly held his fist out to me. Rock Paper Scissors.

"One, two, three," I counted off, tapping his fist with mine each time. I came out with paper, and he had rock.

I grinned.

"Aren't you the one who's always telling me that rock could grind paper if it wanted to?" Harry asked, but he got up to get the mail anyway.

I finished my toast and began to read the headlines off of the back of Verno's paper. Some country was bombing another, and some electric company's stock was down seventeen points. I didn't know what that meant, so I switched to reading the cover of Aunt P's tabloid. A baby in Bath had been born with two heads.

I am so sure.

Harry came back in, examining a letter on top of the pile. He passed a bill, a postcard, and a catalog to Aunt P, but began to slide his finger through the wax seal of the last letter, sitting back down.

Wax seal?

He held the letter under the table and I craned my neck over to see. I caught sight of the address just as Dudley ripped the envelope from Harry's loose grip.

Mr. H. Potter  
The Cupboard under the Stairs  
Number 4 Privet Drive  
Little Whinging  
Surrey__

The cupboard. That tiny cupboard, shared between us, with the cardboard divider I'd made. The cupboard that I'd never told anyone about -- not Jilly, or Jeremy, or Marc. The cupboard that someone, apparently, had seen, and knew about.

"Dad, Mum, Harry's got a letter!" Dudley crowed, waving it around in his fat fist.

I lunged for the letter, grabbing Dudley's arm, and Harry shouted, "Give it back!"

Verno stood up and snatched the letter away from Dudley, knocking me to the ground. I landed facedown next to the Smelting stick, and heard Verno scoff, "Who would write to you?"

I poked my head up and saw Aunt P and Verno leaning over the letter with matching expressions of paralyzing fear.

Fear?

"I wanna read it! I wanna read it!" Dudley whined.

"It's mine!" Harry objected.

For once in my ten years, I stayed silent, my eyes flicking all over the place.

Aunt P made a noise like a deflating chew toy, Verno had a strange expression on his face, and neither of them moved.

I glanced at Harry and made a fist, holding my index finger out from the others. Our sign for, "On three, go". He barely inclined his head, not even looking in my direction, but I knew he had seen.

Aunt P was still gasping and saying things like, "Vernon, oh, Vernon!" as I tapped the floor once. One.

Verno was a delicate shade of green; his only movements were to repeatedly jerk the letter out of Dudley's reach. Two.

"I wanna read it!" Dudley squealed.

"It's mine," Harry broke in. "I want to read it!"

Three.

I grabbed the Smelting stick and swiped at Verno's feet. He faltered for a second, but did come crashing to the floor like I had hoped.

It was enough time for me to spring. I lurched forward and reached for the letter. Harry was there too, grabbing for it, and Dudley was still whining and hitting whoever was in reach with his fists.

Verno stuffed the letter back in its envelope and shook me off a second time. "Out!" he boomed, his face reddening. "Out, all of you!"

Somehow, with a lot of shouting, screaming and Smelting stick smacking, Harry, Dudley, and I were in the hall, behind a locked kitchen door. Almost immediately, there was another fight between the three of us. I got in a couple good hits, but I don't know if they were for Dudley or Harry. Either way, when the metaphoric dust finally settled, Harry had his ear pressed to the crack of the door, his glasses dangling limply from one ear, and Dudley and I were both trying to hear through the keyhole in the knob. He kept pushing me out of the way, though, and I only caught snippets of what was being said.

"How do they know where…" someone hissed.

"What do we do…?" someone asked frantically.

"-- swore to ourselves…" someone muttered.

"But would there be one for her, too?" Aunt P asked, bizarre fear filling her high-pitched voice.

One for her, too? Her… that could only be me of course; Aunt P and Verno usually hated Harry and I both at the same time, in equal amounts. What would be going on that could involve a letter, Harry and I, and a secret that my aunt and uncle were trying very hard to keep?

I dropped to my knees and pressed my ear to the crack between the floor and the door, straining for --

"Kata? We're leaving for lunch now," Melanie's voice came, breaking into my memory. She stood over me with a lunch bag in her hand, her eyes cautious and distrustful.

There was an entire lesson of math printed up on the board, one that I had completely missed, stuck in my daydream. I nodded and followed Melanie out of the room.

I just had a memory, I thought.

***

"Jeremy!" I shouted in no particular direction. I was standing within a clump of trees, in the forest behind the school. "Jeremy, there's nothing here!"

"Yes, there is!" I heard him yell back, and turned in the direction of his voice. Jeremy had taken it upon himself to help me find my twenty things, and he seemed to think that one of them was in this gnarled forest that nobody but us had ever ventured into. Right.

"Can we leave? I think the woods is trying to eat me," I called, smoothing my hair down and jumping onto a rock to get out of the mud I was parked in.

"There has to be something here!" he shouted in response.

"Like a rabid raccoon? " I exclaimed. There are not many things that can scare me, but for some reason, I just hate raccoons. They freak me out, with the dark circles around their eyes, and their ringed tails that resemble a bull's-eye.

"Scared, are we?" came a voice from behind me. I jumped and spun around, and there Jeremy was, doubled over with laughter at my expression.

"Not scared," I muttered, whacking him on the head with my Twenty Things notebook. Not scared, just paranoid. I tried to tell myself that no one from either world was actually after me, but it took a couple seconds to get my heart beating the right way.

"Don't you remember this place?" he asked, settling down enough to talk.

"No," I said testily. "Is this the place where I murder my best friend?"

He shook his head, not bothered by my threat. "This is where our old clubhouse was."

Our clubhouse. The summer that I was six and Jeremy was seven, we'd constructed a wobbly lean-to with some sticks and scraps of cardboard and dubbed it our clubhouse. The only other people allowed inside were his little sister, Mato, and Harry. It was the site of endless play-pretend games, most, ironically, involving one or both of us having magic powers.

Now that Jeremy had said something, I recognized it immediately. The actual clubhouse was gone, but the "sacred rock" was still there -- in fact, I was standing on it. The tree, with its curved branches that reminded me of an umbrella, was so familiar, that I crossed the small clearing and ran my hands over the bark.

"It's gone," I murmured.

Jeremy nodded. "I thought you might like to take one last look at the tree."

I nodded then realized what he had said and whipped around to face him. "What do you mean, 'one last look'?" I demanded.

He shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets and flicking his hair out of his tortoiseshell eyes. "You know Allen Development, that business Winnie Allen's mum runs? They're building some new stuff here. And when up go the buildings, down come the tree."

"No!" I objected, running my fingers over the rough bark again. "What'll happen to it?"

It was a stupid question, but Jeremy answered it anyway, "I guess it'll go to some sort of tree factory and be made into wood for houses, and furniture, and cupboards. Stuff like that."

Cupboards.

_It was late at night, but my small alarm clock had stopped ages ago, and I didn't know what time it was. Harry knocked lightly on the cardboard divider every few minutes, but I was curled up in my nest of a bed, feigning sleep._

Like sleep was ever gonna come.

What was in that letter? My mind was racing, looping around and around, and always coming to rest on the sentence, "One for her, too". The letter had been addressed to Harry only, and that was odd. Mostly, though, it was depressing, because it ruled out any long lost relative trying to find us. It would have said, Harry and Kata Potter. Maybe even Katarine-Natasha, the lengthy first name used only for official things like school records and Social Services. Everyone called me Kata, except for Aunt P, who forcefully maintained that Katarine-Natasha was not a real name, and simply called me Katherine.

I heard another knock, but this one was not from the other side of the divider. It was from the cupboard door itself.

For a few seconds, Harry didn't answer. Then, he said, "Uh… come in."

The cupboard door creaked open and I sat very still, barely breathing. There was no reason I could think of that someone would be visiting us.

"Er… hello, Harry." It was Verno's voice. There was a pause; and then, "Is she asleep?"

"Yes," Harry muttered. "What do you want?"

He was not even trying to hide the anger in his tone. I wondered what conclusion he had reached about the mysterious letter that he blamed Verno for.

Then an idea, so wonderful, popped into my mind, and I did not let logic smash it to pieces. What if it didn't matter that the letter was only addressed to him, if it was for both of us? What if the letter was from them?  
_  
Verno began to speak, with a lot of pauses in his gruff voice. "Well… Petunia and I were thinking… it doesn't make sense for two people to live in here; you'll both outgrow it soon. We thought… maybe you should take Dudley's second bedroom, and Kata could stay --"_

"You think I'll leave her in here?" Harry asked coldly. I hugged my skinny knees to my chest.

"She's small," Verno said meekly.

"I won't pretend to know why you want us out of here, but Kata isn't staying in here by herself. She comes with me," Harry announced with ice in his voice. It was actually a little scary, even if he was sticking up for me, Tiny Kata.

"Fine," Verno growled. "I don't care. Just get out."

"Why?" Harry asked.

"Don't ask questions," Verno snapped. It was the number one rule in this house: things are the way they are, and don't question that.

***

Twenty minutes later, we had dragged all our stuff upstairs in three cardboard boxes. That was all it took, to move everything we owned somewhere else.

I'd barely said anything the entire time, mostly because my mind was still zooming around the fantastic theory that the letter could be from the same people that were the reason we were here.

Someone had put an extra mattress on the floor, along with a thin pink blanket. I slapped my box down on top of it, and immediately started digging around for my coffee tin of special things.

_"What are you --" Harry began, but I held a finger up to stop him. In the very bottom of the tin, nestled between a coin purse that held exactly three pounds, and a Polaroid photo of me with a Cheeto balanced on my tongue, was a square of pure white cardstock with fancy writing and an embossed silver flower:_

Violet and Richard Evans  
Do Proudly Announce  
The Marriage of Their Daughter  
Lily Marie

To  
James Charles,  
Son of  
Dorea and Charles Potter

On August the fourteenth,  
In the Hayberry Catholic Church  
At 3 o' clock  
R.S.V.P.__

In all the time I'd spent exploring the attic, this was the only piece of proof I had that my parents had existed. Aunt P had kept it in a small shoebox, along with a few other items that were meaningless to me: a twig, a wilted flower that hadn't even bloomed yet when it was picked, and a scrap of starry-sky blue cloth. The box had simply been labeled, 'L'.

I handed the invitation wordlessly to Harry and watched the slideshow of emotions play across face. Sadness first, then anger, confusion, more anger, and then sadness mixed with something like a condescending smile.

"Kata," he said gently, "there's no way that either of them could have --"

"Why not?" I demanded. "Why not?" I realized I was about to cry and hated myself for it. It had been years since I'd cried, and now I was about to do it over an invitation that I had stared at a million times? Stupid.

"I don't want to go over this again," he muttered, sitting down on the mattress meant for me, and pulling me with him. "They are dead, and --"

I cut in again. "Maybe not!" I cried, my jaw jutting out with determination. "Maybe one of them is trying to find us, maybe even Violet and Richard, or Dorea and Charles! Maybe everyone didn't leave, and…" I trailed off, biting my lip.

Harry didn't say anything for what felt like forever. We sat on the mattress and looked at everything except each other, and I didn't cry. I stared out into the night (we had a window now) and wished for about a million things on a million different stars.

'Kata," Harry began, "it is always going to be just two of us. Harry and Kata, and never anyone else. You have to understand that."

I couldn't remember Harry ever saying anything like that. We both knew it, and I hoped and wished despite it, but no one had ever said it to me like that, with a cold finality. Harry and Kata Potter, but never a Lily or James Potter.

That was all right, most of the time. We could take care of ourselves. Harry kept me out of trouble, and made sure I didn't do anything crazy, and that I did well in school. He put up with my antics, my weird quirks, and tried to defend them to teachers. I, on the other hand, was better with people, and could usually get whatever we needed. I was also more of a fighter, and though I was barely four-feet and could hardly tip the scale at twenty-seven kilograms , I could pin Piers Polkiss in ten seconds flat. Being a two-person team was okay.

Slowly, I nodded.

"Well, then." Harry sighed, getting up from where we sat. Like nothing had happened at all. "This isn't bad at all. I'll take the mattress, you sleep on the bed, and-"

"Not a chance," I said.

"No. You are sleeping there and I --"

"Kata? Kata, can you hear me?" Jeremy asked.

I was still standing in the forest next to Jeremy, looking at a tree that was doomed to death as surely as I was to succumb to the memories like that one that I'd been trying to bury.

Maybe it would all come out eventually.

"Yes," I answered. "I can hear you. I'm right here, aren't I?"

**Chapter End Notes:**

I really will try to get chapter four up as quick as I can! Thanks for reading! -Eva 


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

So, I've been thinking ("Always a dangerous announcement," mutters Kata quietly in the background.). I could apologise for being late, but that's how I start most chapters. Which means, if you think about it, that I am right on time. All right, you don't have to agree with my logic, but at least enjoy the chapter. Thanks to Azhure, I own Kata but not Harry... and gimme some dang reviews, people!!!!! *Awkward silence*

"What makes your world go 'round?" I asked Marc as she placed the last bag of chips on the shelf, label facing up and directly in front of the "Buy One Get One Free" sign.

"What makes my world go 'round?" she repeated confusedly, turning around to stare at me. I was perched on the bottom step of the ladder that Marc hadn't had to use (If I'm a dwarf, she's a giant. Both of which exist, by the way), my Twenty Things notebook open on my lap. I'd taken a leaf from the clubhouse tree and pasted it on a page, but other than that and details I still had no idea what made the world turn. So, I was asking Marc.

"Yeah. Like… what's important to you. What couldn't you live without? What makes your world go 'round?" I elaborated. Marc adjusted a sideways can of soup and thought for a minute.

"Well," she said finally, "why is it automatically my world? Isn't it just as much your world? Devin's world? Crazy Ben's world?"

Devin is Marc's boyfriend. Crazy Ben is the Quick Mart manager. He has one eye, a straggly beard, and a passion for opera. Like I said, Little Whinging has its characters.

I thought about that and decided. "It just is. That's the assignment. What makes the world of Marcella Semper go 'round. Not anyone else's world."

"You mean the world of Katarine-Natasha Elisabeth-"

"We truly do not have time for my full name, Marc. For the purposes of conversation, let's call it your world."

"Your world," Marc argued.

"Whatever! Just answer!"

She was ridiculously stubborn, crossing her arms over her chest and declaring, "The world doesn't belong to me. I belong to it. And to the other people of the world. We're all in constant harmony."

"Fortune cookie?" I asked dryly. Usually when Marc says something even remotely deep, she did not come up with it on her own.

"I'm serious. If you want to know what makes your world go 'round, first you need to look at the people that mean something to you. You have to find meaning somewhere, Kat. Find something that means something to you."

"I am thinking about the people that mean something to me," I objected. "I'm asking you, and I asked Jeremy, but the best answer he could give me was hair gel. I am looking in places that matter."

She shook her head and adjusted her Quick Mart nametag, reading, Hello! My name is Marc! "Find meaning, Kata," she repeated. "Find something that means something."

I thought it was a little vague for Marc to keep using the word 'something', without giving me any indication what I should be looking for.

What means something to me? The only answer that came to me was knowledge. The knowledge that I was special, the knowledge that I wouldn't be stuck here forever. It made things tolerable. But knowledge wasn't really something I could put in a notebook, or a list, or a box, or even a letter.

"I can't think of anything," I finally answered, because she was expecting a reply.

"And that is just sad," Marc declared. She held her arms aloft and swished them around, like she was shooing me away. "Now, away with you, on a quest to find meaning! I hereby sic you on the unsuspecting world!"

"Thanks for all the help," I muttered, and marched down the aisle without a backwards glance.

Look out world, I thought dryly, Kata Potter's coming and she has no idea what she's doing.

As I stepped out through the automatic doors and into the fresh air, I became immediately aware of the holiday buzz. Every store window was decorated with smiling paper pumpkins, and advertisements for jumbo size bags of candy. Extra streetlamps had been lit, and there was a tangible excitement in the air.

Halloween evening. Last year I had been a Friendly Vampire, mostly because I couldn't find fangs to make myself look menacing. This year I didn't have a costume, or any plans, really. Except for the whole "find some stinking meaning" thing.

I always loved Halloween. It's just my kind of holiday, what with the candy, and the dressing up as someone you're not. I still love Halloween, actually… just didn't feel right this year.

I didn't know what it was, but as I started to bike down the road I felt a twinge of premonition. I mean, come on. It's Halloween, Night of Terrors, Night of the Dead… and I happen to be an actual witch all alone, riding a beat up old bike down a store-lined street. What would you feel?

You know, they used to burn witches at the stake. Even the ones that weren't real.

Little kids were starting to converge onto the sidewalks, along with the occasional older kid with a sheet over their head, or some other pathetic excuse for a costume. I ducked my head and swerved onto the street, at the last second turning into the park instead of the road that would take me home. My tires rustled over dry leaves, and everything looked amber under the streetlights.

I settled on a bench under a lamp and opened my notebook on my lap.

Things That Mean Something To Me

1. Knowledge

And then I drew a blank. What defines whether or not something matters to you? I like Pop Tarts, but that doesn't mean that they matter to me… or does it? Am I just supposed to look for things I like, and form my twenty things from that?

It was seriously frustrating me that I still didn't know how to do this assignment in the first place. Was I seriously that messed up that I couldn't figure out a simple question like that? What twenty things make my world go 'round? Not hard! Not even remotely difficult, but I could not put pen to paper. I had no idea what I'd find.

I started going through my bag. These were the things I took with me, I reasoned. They must mean something. Among a slingshot, a hair elastic, the coffee tin, and my Dear Friend notebook, I found my sketchpad. With a sigh, I flipped it open and the first face stared back at me.

For two years now, I've been drawing these faces. Everyone who's seen them (that is, Harry and Jeremy) say that they look scarily realistic. And, it is a bit scary, I guess, when you think that I've never met any of these people in my life. To the best of my knowledge, they're just random faces that pop into my mind.

But that can't be it. I want it to be something else. I want it to be magic.

Suddenly I stopped and smiled to myself. Taking a deep breath, I lifted one finger an examined it, like that girl did on Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Waving it once, I pointed it at a small rock next to the bench and chanted,

"On this night of All Hallows Eve,  
Make this rock fly above all the trees!"

This might surprise you, but nothing happened. I sighed, and pointed my finger at a tree, and cried,

"Be so different from all the others,  
Turn these tree leaves purple in colour!"

Maybe it has to be pure rhyme, I thought dejectedly. Mr. Mendota had said something about that, but I couldn't remember what it was. Something about having the word's last syllables sound exactly the same, but that wasn't all, or "other" and "colour" would have worked.

The sounds of trick-or-treaters were getting louder now, and the little watch key chain on my bag told me that it was just after eight. That meant that I had an hour before I had to be home (or, an hour before they locked the door, as I was already supposed to be in), and I was not going to waste it sitting on a park bench.

I hadn't eaten since lunch at school, so I did hit a couple of houses for some sweets. After telling people that I was Raggedy Ann (my hair is literally the same shade of red as the wig), I had two chocolate bars, and a bag of Gummy Bears. I opened the bears and popped a few in my mouth as I walked my bike down Main Street, looking a people's costumes and occasionally shooting a spell at something under my breath. Nothing happened at all, but it was sort of fun to know that I had a secret. I laughed once at a little girl dressed as a witch with a hairy mole on her nose and a black pointed hat. I switched to telling people that I was a witch when they asked, and enjoyed watching their eyebrows go up as they examined me.

The sun was quickly disappearing behind the horizon, streaking the sky with colours that didn't normally appear there. Shell pink melted into pearly lavender, which became ribbons of sea foam green mixed with vivid orange. I looked up at it as I walked, trying to see patterns or shapes.

After a while, the littler kids vanished, leaving the teenagers, and the kids convinced that they were teenagers, to roam the night. Sea foam green faded into grey, and a couple of stars shone through.

My hour was almost up, and I found myself wandering back into the park. I sat down on another bench, and listened to the sounds of night approaching. The quiet buzzing of the streetlamps, the chirping of crickets, the rustling of trees… I shook my head. I was feeling way too poetic tonight.

I leaned back and closed my eyes, trying to think of something a little more… Kata-ish. I was wondering if I could ask Mr. Mendota about that pure rhyme thing without letting him know that I needed it for actual spells when a man sat down next to me.

At least I think it was a man. He (she?) was dressed in a long black cloak flowed to the ground, with a hood that drooped low over his face. His hands were hidden too, in long, baggy sleeves and he was utterly silent, like a ghost, as he sat, staring straight ahead. Silent like the dead.

The sense of premonition was back, and my palms slightly began to sweat. Sinister images clouded my mind, and I tried to push myself away. That was what I got for obsessing over magic at night, on Halloween no less. There must be thousands of people in dark cloaks, wandering the streets. This man was one of thousands.

Yeah, right.

I swung my feet and chewed my lip nervously, wondering, if he was going to pull out the curved Grim Reaper dagger-on-stick. I prayed that, if he did, it would be that plastic one that I'd spotted Eric Stephens carrying around tonight. It's just a costume, I chanted to myself over and over. This is not worth scaring yourself over.

The sky was black now, no trace of pink left. The silence was killing me.

"Nice costume," I finally said, trying to bring my metaphoric knife through the tension hanging in the air.

He didn't move. Didn't even flinch, or make any indication that he had heard me. I was starting to wonder if the premonition I'd experienced earlier had anything to do with this. Something about the presence of this man mad me terribly nervous, and mixed with premonition, I had a sense of déjà vou, like I'd been here before, on Halloween night, with this man in a dark cloak.

And then I nearly had a heart attack when I realised what had happened on one of the Halloweens of my past. I felt like my blood had turned to ice, and like someone had poured hot water down my spine, both at the same time. I had no memories, so there were no flashbacks, but my body was swallowed by my mind, caught up in thoughts that the dread was real.

It was all real, wasn't it?

I stood up and moved quickly to leave, snatching my backpack and throwing it halfway over my shoulder, and gripping for the handlebars of my bike.

A hand closed around my forearm and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Instead, I screamed, high-pitched and long, until a hand was clamped over my mouth too. Even through the pounding in my ears I could hear a spell, an actual spell, being whispered, and somehow I couldn't find my voice anymore.

This was really happening. Some magic-maniac was kidnapping me, I had no idea why, and I couldn't even scream! My thoughts were moving much quicker than they normally did, racing around my head and trying to find any way out of this.

But I couldn't, of course I couldn't. Shrimpy little girl vs. armed Wizard… who had the better chance of winning? How could I fight when I had no means of fighting?

Then the whole scene changed. I wasn't any stronger, or any more able. I still had no magic. Everything was so completely different, but all that physically changed was me. My attacker gave me a weapon, something that only I could fight with, something that meant something: a reason to fight.

It was a cold voice whispering in my ear that did it. "Don't you ever resent it? Being left powerless?" he hissed, voice like a snake.

Snap. My mind went snap.

I don't know what it was, but suddenly it didn't matter that I couldn't scream. It didn't even matter that I didn't have a wand, or any magic that I could control. Who was this man to come and take me and tell me I couldn't stop it? I could fight him. I could fight him in the only way I'd ever learned.

With adrenaline-fuelled strength, I brought my head forward and then back, ramming in into his where it still rested by my ear. An inhuman snarl of rage was all I had time to hear before I snap-kicked my foot into the man's groin. There was a strange sound like someone snapping a twig in half, but I didn't focus on that. His grip released long enough for me to break loose and snap his pinkie finger back so far that it almost touched his wrist.

And then I was free, but I only had seconds. Not enough time for my bike, which would be faster, but I didn't care. I was sprinting like my life depended on it, because it did, and screaming over my shoulder, "That's what happens when you play with your food before you eat it!"

It wasn't a very happy metaphor, seeing as technically I was the food. I didn't actually want to think about what would have happened if he had decided that it wasn't important to taunt me, and that it was more important I was dead.

Dead. Could that have happened? Would that man have killed me? I didn't know how much danger I was in. The thought that I was marked for death was… unbelievable. They'd promised… there wasn't supposed to be any danger…

I was still running, though my burning lungs and a sharp pain in my right side were all for stopping. I would run through the whole town if I needed to, to get home. It was after nine, I knew that, and I still didn't have my voice, but I told myself that getting home would solve these problems.

The few memories of magic I had were swirling inside my brain, and I settled on the darkest – the explanation that I could not immediately depart the Muggle world. A teacher whose name I vaguely remembered was Scottish (McGoogle, or something) with a stern face was telling me that I had to wait a year.

Of course it will be safe, she answered, when I had asked. The knowledge that I was once the object of murder hadn't really settled well in my stomach, and I was nervous to be left alone in a tiny town. There was no need for anything but minimal protection. There was no immediate danger.

I ran up the walkway and slammed into the door, banging my fists against the hard wood. "Open up!" I screamed. "Open up, I'm being pursued! Open up!"

I heard the lock click, and the door swung open. Verno stood there in a forest green bathrobe and a purple face, but I rushed past him and into the kitchen. I wasn't really sure what I was thinking, but I grabbed a knife from the drawer and started turning all around, like the man who had tried to kill me could be right behind me.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Verno thundered, moving toward me, but stopping a safe distance away from my knife.

My mind was whirling, wondering why he wasn't here. I knew that wizards could disappear and reappear wherever they wanted, as long as they had a wand. And he had a wand, because he had taken away my voice… before I'd kicked him.

The noise like a twig snapping… I'd broken his wand. He couldn't follow me.

I collapsed to the ground out of relief, letting the knife slide from my fingers and clatter to the spotless linoleum. I sat up cross-legged and put my head in my hands.

"I think I broke his wand," I murmured from between my fingers.

"You did what now?" Verno roared, advancing toward me now that I didn't have a knife.

"I… he did something to my voice… and I broke his wand."

I wasn't thinking clearly. Mentions of magic were utterly taboo in this house, and I was pretty much confessing that I'd been in a fight with a wizard to my uncle. Not all that smart.

"What did you say?" Aunt P asked, coming into the kitchen with a pink bathrobe.  
I didn't say anything, remembering that in a court of law anything I said could and would be held against me. I figured the same riles could apply.

Verno, for his part, clearly didn't want to hear what I had to say, as he pointed to the stairs in a kind of I-can-only-handle-so-much-of-this-in-one-night gesture.

I marched up the stairs and sat in the middle of my bedroom floor, awake and alert, because I knew that sleep was pointless.

***

I got to school the next morning exhausted and still a little paranoid. Every time my bike hit a bump in the sidewalk (I had stopped by the park and dug it out of the bushes), I almost jumped off the seat, and the slightest twittering of birds set me on edge for five minutes.

So, okay, more than a little paranoid.

Mr. Mendota showed up to class wearing a beret, like he always does when our class is scheduled to go to the art room.

Our art teacher, Mrs. Bridge, looks a little like what most people consider to be a witch. She has short bristly black hair, a wart on her left ear, and a mannish build. I don't actually like her that much, because she always tried to see weird things in people's pictures. I draw a cat; she sees Marie Antoinette being executed by the rebelling French. I draw a tree; she sees a giant talking bird working at a kiosk. She also calls everyone by their entire name, which can make for a long conversation if she's talking to me. Thankfully, I asked her to omit all my middle names a long time ago, and she agreed that that was probably best.

Anyway, Mrs. Bridge makes for a very interesting class period, but I just wasn't up for it that day.

"Today, we are going to delve deep into our creative souls, and bring forth a masterpiece to the world!" she announced as soon as we were all sitting down. "You shall give birth to a work of art so pure, so great, that Van Gough and Monet, should they still live, would hail you as ruler over all mankind and the great heavens as well!" she looked to the sky, her frizzy black hair hanging in her eyes.

We looked at her and blinked.

Mrs. Bridge readjusted her glasses, which were splattered with paint and hung sideways off one ear, and put her hands on her hips. "So, everyone draw a picture of what Halloween means to you."

I sort of hate people that don't let holidays die once they're over. Halloween was yesterday, and those of us who had near-death experiences really want to get over it.

Sherrie, Winnie, and a boy named Andy shared my table. They all reached into the basket of dull coloured pencils and began working.

I picked up a green pencil and twirled it lithely between my fingers, wondering what I should draw. Considering that some really crappy things had happened to me on Halloween, I wasn't about to draw pictures of candy, like Sherrie was, or a picture of myself in a princess costume, like Winnie was. And, uh, fighter planes were out as well, which was what Andy was drawing.

Nearly being kidnapped yesterday wasn't the half of my Halloween troubles. I was pretty sure… Actually, I was positive that Halloween was the day my parents died.

It didn't make me sad like it probably should have to know this. I took the green pencil and started colouring in a corner of the paper, thinking about that. Of all the things in my life that I am sad about, losing my parents isn't really one of them. It's just a part of who I am, at this point. Mostly, I just kind of admired the bitter irony of almost being killed yesterday. I wondered if the man had planned it like that.

And then I realised two things. One, magic wasn't responsible for their deaths. That would be like… if they'd died in a car crash, like I was always told, and I grew up hating Henry Ford. If they had died in a fire, I wouldn't have blamed the guy who invented matches. It was stupid to hate magic because of that.

The other thing I realised was that it sort of was my fault. That guy called Voldemort… he had been trying to kill Harry and I, right? What if he had tried to kill us first? The curse would have rebounded off of Harry like it had, and everything would be fine.

It was probably stupid to blame myself as well, but… all the what ifs kept swimming around in my brain.

I'd coloured almost half of the paper entirely green when my picture started to change. I saw my face in my mind, and suddenly there it was on paper, a Drawing, like the rest of the one's in my sketchpad. It was different, though. My face was bunched up like I was confused, and my hair became words, twisting and turning away from my scalp in a single phrase.

My fault? My fault? My fault? It said over and over again.

Mrs. Bridge came over to our desk to observe what we'd done. Winnie smiled dazzlingly and held her picture up for the teacher.

Mrs. Bridge looked at the picture for a moment, and then announced, "You're a spoiled little brat, aren't you, Winifred Marie Alderson?"

I had to muffle my laughter with my fist, but the expression on Winnie's face was enough.

"No," Winnie corrected quietly, "this is a picture of my Halloween costume!"

Then, Mrs. Bridge shook her head and moved onto Sherrie's picture. Sherrie looked terrified to have her work examined after what had been said to Winnie, but Mrs. Bridge smiled and said softly in her gruff voice, "You have a pure heart."

After looking at Andy's drawing ("You resent the wars that you so eagerly draw!"), Mrs. Bridge looked at mine.

She was quiet for a full ten seconds. "You're starting to figure things out, aren't you, Katarine-Natasha Potter?"

I didn't know what to say to that. But as she turned and walked away, she called over her shoulder, "But you should know… it isn't."

And I like to think of that moment as a turning point. Because, even if I didn't believe her (who would?) I made two very important decisions.

**Chapter End Notes:**

I'll try to be early (or on time... this can get confusing!) ;) Oh, and if I put another HP fic up, a next generation Mystery, would anyone read it? I need to try it out on an audience before postin' to Mugglenet. Raise your hand if you wanna be my guinea pig! *Awkward Silence* -Eva


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Chapter Notes: **Hey, everybody. I find it a little disturbing that, apparently, I'm talking to myself in both this story and these author's notes, because I get no feedback. Hmmm. If only there was a magical button at the bottom of the screen for you all to click and say things about my story. I don't even care if they're nice things! Writing is all about reaching an audience, and I'd like to know what my audience thinks. Okay…. Just a few things to say before chapter five commences. 1) Song lyrics are in italics. THEY ARE NOT FLASHBACKS! I trust you to discern the difference. 2) I apologize for sort of making Kata a Mary-Sue with all of her extra middle names, but it's important to the plot of the entire series that she have them. 3) I should mention that, as Sorcerer's Stone takes place in 1991, and Meg & Dia released 'Indiana' around 2004… the only logical explanation for how Mr. Mendota got their CD is that he has a time machine. Thankfully, he's a thoroughly illogical fellow, so it's cool. I don't own Harry Potter, Alice In Wonderland, or Indiana. Enjoy the chapter!

**Chapter Five: I Can Do Whatever I Want Like You**

The second decision was that I was finding my Twenty Things, and I was doing it the right way. No help from Marc, or Jeremy, or anyone. I was doing this on my own, with my own interpretation of the project.

I knew that I hadn't been giving it my full effort. I sort of searched half-heartedly, walking around town, expecting important things to jump out at me. That wasn't going to happen. I was going to have to look in every aspect of my life, from my present, to my past, and… well, I am a witch. Maybe it would be possible to search my future.

But for now, I was stuck in school, having knowledge involuntarily shoved down my throat. Not that I was paying much attention. My Twenty Things notebook was open on my desk, and I was hiding behind an upturned schoolbook, finishing a drawing of a dark figure. Above it, I had written in my slanted, twirling handwriting, "Something to fight for". Well, it was something that meant something… and as annoyed as I was with that vague word, I'm not going to pretend that Marc's idea wasn't a good one.

Might as well build on it.

Mr. Mendota was lecturing about how to convert Celsius to Fahrenheit, but I couldn't imagine why I would ever need to know that, so his voice was pretty much background music. Like a song that I had stuck in my head, one I was fairly indifferent to, but one that could get old quickly.

I rubbed the lead markings on my paper with my thumb, trying to make the drawing look a little more realistic. All it did was smudge the Dark Man's head and make me feel stupid. As much as I wanted to, I just couldn't draw anything that wasn't a creepy, haunting face.

The bell rang shrilly, the sound nudging into my thoughts and pulling me from my frustration. I threw my things into my backpack and moved for the door at normal speed, planning to stop at Flinker's before heading to the library, my true destination.

But Mr. Mendota sidestepped into my path and smiled down at me in a way that made me realise I wasn't going to get out of there on time today.

"Hello, Kata," he greeted warmly when everyone had left the room, and the last kid had shut the door.

"What do you want?" I snapped, not bothering with formalities. "I do have places to be."

He chuckled. "Yes, I'm sure you're very busy."

He didn't say it sarcastically, which actually made me a bit more nervous. I glared.

He ignored me, and sat down at a table in the corner, pulling something from behind a chair. "Do you know how to play chess?"

Of course I do. I'm actually a member of chess club, and I like nothing better than moving little pieces around a board.

Right.

"No," I answered with sigh, and I knew I wasn't getting out of this now. "I never learned how."

Mr Mendota smiled and motioned for me to sit down. I did, setting my backpack next to my chair and committing to being there for a while.

Teachers are just regular people, I guess, because Mr Mendota switched on some background music and started assembling the board. I watched his large hands move, trying to remember the names of the chess pieces. I knew there was a Queen, a King, and pawns… Probably a rook, too, but I couldn't find anything that looked like the birds that flew around the beach in the summer. Summer. The word dredged up a couple things in my mind. Why was it that I didn't want to think about summer?

_"No mail today!" Verno announced in a chipper voice. "Rain, snow, or sleet, they say, and the mail will come. But not on Sundays! No, sir, never on Sundays!"_

I scowled and watched my reflection in the kitchen window scowl back as I wiped the counter from breakfast. Deciding that the crumbs there weren't really my problem, I threw the rag on the floor and walked over to the living room, where everyone else sat. Verno sipped his fourth mug of coffee; Aunt P chewed her lip and kneading her hands. It didn't matter what day it was to her, she was still nervous. I was beginning to suspect that Aunt P had some sort of personal history with the letter writer.

I tried not to think that this supported my theory about the person attempting to contact us. Aunt P had been Lily's sister…

Harry stared off into space like he usually did when he didn't want to deal with anyone in the room. Maybe he agreed with Verno that there would be no letters today.

Oh. Right.

I shook my head, as if I could shake the image from my mind, and concentrated on the music emitting from Mr Mendota's CD player.

_I can do whatever I want like you,  
I can do whatever I want like you,  
I can do whatever I want like you…  
Like you…_

She began to die,  
Indiana, that's not right,  
Indiana, that's not life,  
Then she began to fight,  
Indiana, make it mine  
Indiana, make it mine!

The singer was a girl, and her voice was rough, but still smooth, if that makes sense. Rough, because there was hidden pain in her tone. Smooth, because she didn't want the pain, and she was doing an excellent job of hiding it. The whole thing evened out nicely, and created a twisting melody that rose and fell in unexpected places… yet all the right places.

I wondered vaguely how she did that. When I sang… Well, let's just say my voice makes small children cry.

"What band is this?" I asked Mr Mendota before I could remind myself that I was not here for conversation. I was here because he wanted to analyse me.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," he said with a grin, indicating my T-shirt. "The name of this group is Meg & Dia. And… who are the accurately dubbed 'Weird Sisters'?"

I shrugged, partly because I didn't know, and partly because I couldn't tell him. I'd just bought the T-shirt in Diagon Alley, after noticing they had a song called 'Cool Kat'. Kat… Kata… it sort of made sense. He seemed to take that as an answer and began explaining the rules of chess.

"The pawns are these little ones. They can only move one square at a time, except for the first time they move. These two on the side are rooks, or castles, if you wish. And then, the bishops…"

I listened as he went on, describing each piece in detail, and what it could and could not do. There were so many rules; I knew I'd have trouble remembering them, but still I listened. I let him speak, and I almost felt comfortable in the room, with the chessboard and my teacher, and Meg & Dia playing softly in the background.

_I can do whatever I want like you,  
I can do whatever I want like you,  
I can do whatever I want like you,_

Is this where the brave hearts die?  
Is this where the brave hearts die?  
Oh, no!  
Is this how the brave hearts die?  
Is this how the brave hearts die?  


I smiled wryly, thinking that life was simpler in song form. No one ever knows where the brave hearts die.

Mr Mendota misinterpreted my smile. "Amused by the lyrics, are we?" he asked, breaking off from the chess lecture. "Yes, this song, "Indiana", is based on the book by George Sand. It's about a young French woman."

I made a face. "They wrote a song based on a book?" I asked. "Doesn't that seem kind of…?"

I couldn't think of the correct word.

"Pointless?" Mr Mendota guessed with a grin. I was beginning to notice that he grinned a lot, like a child. I examined his face, and realised that he couldn't be that old. Not even thirty, probably. His glasses and tidy appearance hid his youthful face, and I got the feeling I was seeing a side of him that he didn't care to show to his students. He didn't seem that… in charge when he was analysing me.

Because he was analysing me. I didn't let myself believe anything else.

"Yeah," I answered, poking thoughts of his age out of my head for now. "Pointless."

Another grin. "But it's not, is it?"

I shook my head; reflecting on the lyrics and thinking about Indiana, the young French woman who began to fight and die. It wasn't pointless. I thought about all the people who would probably get bored with reading a book like that after the first five minutes. People like me. But the song condensed it, shuffling things around and laying them out so I could understand.

My wry smile turned into a victorious one as I made a mental note to add 'music' to my twenty things. See? Not hard at all.

Then I turned my attention back to the chessboard and we began to play. A few minutes passed with silence, and we moved the ivory and night-coloured pieces around the board, each taking swipes at the other's king.

"So…" Mr Mendota began. "Anything new with you?"

I almost burst out laughing at the seemingly normal question that I could never answer. Yes, Mr Mendota, I imagined myself saying. I was almost kidnapped and possibly killed on Halloween, I may have just changed my whole life with a couple of art teacher-induced decisions, and I still have no clue who I am. Thanks for asking.

Instead, I shrugged, and gave him the answer he wanted. "I started working on my twenty things," I murmured, prodding a pawn from a black square to a white one.

He smiled again, but there was a hint of sadness underneath that I didn't understand. Pushing his wire glasses further up onto his nose, he poked a pawn as well.

"Something I forgot to tell you about chess," he said as I took a pawn and placed it next to my rook, like I was trying to set up a bodyguard for the more important piece. "Every piece accept the pawns can move backwards, but only the knight can jump over other pieces to do so."

More than anything else about his chess monologue, that caught my attention. "Why?" I blurted unthinkingly. "Why would any of them move back? When they were already forward?"

Mr Mendota looked at my confused expression for a long time, and I met his gaze evenly. Finally, he sighed and gave a laugh without humour.

"Kata, I am going to do something very rude," he warned, "and answer a question with a question. And the question is: how do you see something you don't think you saw, when you know you didn't really see it?"

I thought the real bit of rudeness was twisting my thoughts around a convoluted question like that. If you didn't see something… but if you know you didn't see it, then how… I couldn't wrap my mind around it.

Mr Mendota seemed to deduce as much from my expression, and he gave yet another childish smile. "I'll go easy on you next time," he promised, and then, with a flourish, he moved a bishop forward to take my king.

My mouth fell open with a little popping noise. I inspected the board carefully, trying to see where exactly I had gone wrong. There was nothing. I had been lining myself up to take his queen… I couldn't even find a hole in my carefully planned defense. But there my king was, capsized on a square of ebony.

Mr Mendota laughed at my expression. "Sorry. I never give people a break the first time through. Builds character."

I rearranged my face into a disgruntled mask, thinking that was better than vulnerable surprise. Then I shrugged.

"Are we done?" I asked, suddenly really annoyed with myself for sitting here and playing chess. I had things to do, I reminded myself, and they did not include character building chess.

He laughed, and this time it irritated me. "Almost," he answered, "I have something I need to give you."

Probably homework, or something else useless. I fidgeted, suddenly very eager to leave.

Mr Mendota opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out… a book. A cloth-bound, thick book, with a disembodied smile embossed in silver on the dark purple front. He walked back over, and set it on the table. I studied the cover almost hesitantly, thinking that I was right. Another assignment.

He read my face and laughed (again). "One of your middle names is Alice, right?"

I sighed, and nodded. One of five middle names.

He shrugged, and said hurriedly, "It's not a bad name. It… makes you more interesting."

I rolled my eyes. Like I need any other "interesting" things. I like my name a lot, I really do. But I wasn't going to admit that. "It's long," I complained, making a face.

"Well, you've shortened in nicely. Katarine-Natasha Elisabeth Rose Lillian Alice Mintaka Potter… Alice."

I didn't really understand how he'd ended that sentence until I turned the book sideways and read the spine of the book: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

I half-laughed. "I've already seen the movie," I assured him, pushing the book back over to his end of the table. "That's all the Wonderland I need."

He pushed the book back. "This should be required reading for all children," he retorted. I gazed at the book, and recognised the Cheshire cat's grin on the front, remembering how he would disappear until there was nothing left of him but that smile.

I didn't say anything, waiting or him to tell me I had to read it. He didn't.

"I truly think you'd enjoy this book, Kat," he insisted. I flinched at the nickname.

As if to remind me that I was supposed to be looking for my Twenty Things, Mr Mendota's watch beeped, just as shrilly as the bell.

"You know what? Fine," I muttered, taking the purple book and stuffing it in my backpack. "I'll read it in my endless spare time."

He smiled kindly, but I ignored him and started for the door, fuming about the amount of time I'd let pass.

"Kata?" he called from behind me. I turned around and raised my eyebrows at him, waiting.

"You didn't answer my question. How do you see something you don't think you saw, when you know you didn't really see it?"

I gave him a long, exasperated look, before shrugging in irritation and saying, "Maybe you weren't looking hard enough."

His expression made it look like I had just passed some sort of in-depth mental test. I sighed and turned back around, heading for the door one more.

"One more thing?" he asked hesitantly from behind me. I scowled, and then turned round very slowly.

"What?" My tone was very near acidic.

"Don't look directly at the sun. It hurts your eyes."

I shook my head in disbelief. "Noted," I replied, and, still shaking my head, I finally exited the classroom.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~

My memory began where it had left off.

_Harry stared off into space like he usually did when he didn't want to deal with anyone in the room. Maybe he agreed with Verno that there would be no letters today._

Personally, I didn't think that would hinder our letter writer. The letters had been finding the strangest ways into our house. When Verno had cheerfully nailed the mail slot shut, twelve letters had simply been squeezed through the cracks in the door. Fifteen more were found rolled up with the newspaper. Aunt P had discovered several hidden in the milk jug delivered by a confused looking milkman.

I was going to get my hands on one sooner or later.

Harry sat up suddenly. "Did you hear that?" he whispered to me. Verno eyed us suspiciously and I shook my head. But a couple seconds later, I did hear something. A sort of… internal rumbling noise, coming from--

"The fireplace," I breathed. Harry nodded.

"That's right! No blasted letters today!" Verno continued, spreading jam on a piece of toast from the tray that Aunt P had set on the coffee table.

A louder rumbling echoed throughout the room, and this time it was distinctly coming from the fireplace. I held my breath.

Just as Verno lifted the toast to his mouth, a stiff envelope zipped out of the chimney and hit him right in the forehead.

I wasn't the only one holding my breath. Harry was holding out the "on three, go" sign, but I didn't know what he was waiting for or what I was supposed to be counting down to.

Verno had just started to tear the letter up when another came flying out, landing with a smack on the floor. About three or four hundred followed it, flying like bullets and hitting everyone on the head a lot.

I dived. The letters had already covered the floorboards in the living room, and they were edging like a tidal wave toward the kitchen. Letters poured down in hundreds, and I thought if I could just snag one, I would get my answers…

I reached. My hand was so close--

Someone's fist connected hard with my jaw and I fell down on a pile of letters. Harry yelled, and I grabbed a fistful of paper, but Verno's fist caught me again in the stomach and I doubled over involuntarily and released the stiff squares. Another blow to the head, and suddenly I was being thrown out into the hallway with Harry and Dudley. I aimed a good kick at Verno's leg, but all that got me was a punch, harder than the others, in the eye, which I knew would swell.

When I looked up, Verno appeared to be suffering from some kind of mental breakdown. His face was eggplant, contrasting with a bulging blue vein in his left temple. He was literally ripping out his hair, and clumps or his mustache were clutched in his meaty fists. One eye was pointing in the opposite direction of the other.

It would have been amusing if it wasn't so disturbing.

"Five minutes! We are leaving! Now!" he bellowed. This didn't make much sense, but suddenly everyone was moving, and I just followed, getting ready for whatever journey my half-insane uncle was planning.

I didn't take much, throwing some clothes, a toothbrush, comb, and my coffee tin of special things in a bag. Harry forced a bag of ice on me for my eye, and exactly five minutes later, all of us were crammed into Verno's car.

We drove for hours, and it was ridiculously boring. The only entertainment was the sportscast on the radio, and my cousin's constant whining, which--

Water? Why was there water? What was wet?

My eyes blinked open confusedly, and the first thing I saw was the soggy floorboards pressed to my face. I almost closed my eyes again, thinking that this was a continuation of my dream, but something that sounded a lot like gunfire brought me to my feet looking rapidly around.

My panic ebbed as I saw the open window and the storm raging outside. The gunfire had been thunder.

Rain rocketed to the ground in bucketfuls, and there was little space between the drops. Everything on the desk, directly in front of the window, was soaked, and there were random pools forming around my bed. Somehow, I had rolled off the mattress and into one of the miniature lakes, which had interrupted my dream and woken me up.

I moved across the floor, to stare out into the night. Ominous purple-black clouds were coiled against the sky, occasionally lit up by a burst of eerily silent lightning. Thunder boomed next, ripping through the storm. For such a wild rainstorm, it almost had a calming effect one me, numbing the memory that I didn't want to think about.

I closed the windows with a click, and the noise became muffled, almost pleasant. Dragging the mattress over so that I could look out the window, I lay down on my stomach and opened my Twenty Things notebook, looking at the drawing of music. As an intangible object, it had been harder to capture on paper, but I had settled for twisting one long sentence into the shape of a music note. The words rang through my ears.

_I can do whatever I want like you,  
I can do whatever I want like you,  
I can do whatever I want like you,  
Like you._

I smiled and closed the notebook, wondering how long it would take me to find my twenty things. Not that long, I hoped, because I wasn't sticking around for much longer.

Because the first decision was that I was getting to Hogwarts… soon.

_I can do whatever I want like you._

**Chapter End Notes:**

Yeah... Kata's got a lot of plans, doesn't she? Read on to find out which of them transform into reality. Oh, and if you're wondering why I'm not going into terrible detail about the Twenty Things she's finding, it's because they aren't really her Twenty Things. A lot more is going to have to happen before she discovers what makes the world go 'round. Thanks for reading!

-Eva


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Notes: **

Wow... this chapter did take me a while, didn't it? I hope that didn't turn anyone off the story, because I think this is my best so far, and I know it's by far the longest. I also (finally) worked out my italics issues. Just an FYI: this is the last "introductory" chapter. I've set up the scene and the plot, and introduced all the characters that I will, so things are really going to start happening in chapter seven. Thanks to twilightHPgirl18 for beat-ing, and to everyone who reviewed. Enjoy!

~*~*~*~

November dragged.

And winter either didn't know or didn't care what month it was. It rocketed forcefully into Little Whinging, coating the ground in mushy gray-white snow and constantly blowing frigid winds in every direction. If you went outside, it was probable that at first you would think that you had entered some sort of wormhole, and had been transported to Antarctica. People bundled up tightly like Eskimos were always half-running on the sidewalks; eager to get where they needed to go.

I watched the window from the pew in the back of Our Lady of the People, enjoying how the wind caught the flurries and swirled them into little tornadoes. Mr. Millerton stood at the front, just finishing a speech about how you shouldn't drink water from a plastic bottle that's been left in the sun for awhile, because the chemicals from the plastic could seep into it and poison your system.

_What sun?,_ I thought. I hadn't seen the sun in two weeks. Even when the snow stopped for a few hours, a thick blanket of clouds lay across the sky.

My notebook sat open across my lap, and I was trying to get a realistic sketch of Mr. Millerton. I'd decided that the church (or whatever it is) meant something to me, enough to be included in my Twenty Things.

Mr. Millerton's eyes kept turning out funny, sort of lopsided, and when I tried to erase, the rest of his face got smudged and warped. Frustrated, I considered giving him sunglasses, like the guy who sat in the third pew from the front. I called him Secret Agent. He always wore a crisp black and white suit, with dark shades and a little earpiece. Not the kind of guy you would have expected to be there at all, but you could say the same for me. We were a huge bunch of misfits.

I started drawing Secret Agent on the same page, thinking I could do a little collage about Our Lady of the People. I concentrated so hard on getting his suit jacket right, biting my lip and squinting my eyes, that I didn't notice when the sanctuary was silent and I was the only one in the room, except for a couple of Goth teenagers and a guy of questionable soberness that had fallen asleep.

I also didn't notice Mr. Millerton, standing right over me, looking down at my drawing with interested eyes and a small, indulgent smile.

I jumped, nearly out of my skin, as his hand lightly touched my shoulder, stiffening like I expected an attack, and knocking my backpack to the ground. The sound of its crash echoed throughout the empty, open room.

When I saw it was him, I relaxed and waited for him to go away.

But he didn't. Of course he didn't.

"I have seen you here a lot, little girl," he announced formally, taking a seat to me on the thin-velvet-cushioned pew. With an expression that suggested he did this everyday, he held his hand out for my pencil. "If I may?"

After hesitating a few seconds, and seriously considering the option of running out the back door, I warily placed it in his waiting, callused hand. He closed his fingers around it, and they seemed like they knew what to do all on their own, with no signal from his brain. Lithely, the curled themselves around the thin, yellow wood, and he pressed the tip of the lead to the paper.

"But I have never seen you here with anyone else," he continued. His hand began to stroke the paper, almost lovingly, and the pencil marks he left there were light and flowing, sprouting from his fingers as easily as blooming flowers. I saw then that Mr. Millerton was an artist. I almost grabbed the book back, unwilling to have him see my embarrassing scribbles. However, he barely seemed to notice there was anything else on the page. I forced myself to sit very still.

I also didn't respond to anything he was saying, other than slight changes in expression. That didn't seem to bother him, and he kept talking.

"If I had to guess your age from your size, I would say seven, maybe eight. But you are much older than that, aren't you? Yes. Still… you are a child. When I see a child in my church, accompanied by no one, I have to be curious." He paused, and smiled kindly. "Curious, but not resistant. You seem to like the things you hear here."

"I do," I murmured absently, almost mesmerized by his drawing. It was beautiful to me, simple an elegant.

"Ah, you can speak!" he replied, as if he had honestly doubted that I could. "Though that does not make this puzzle any less puzzling. What is you name?"

He had an interesting way of speaking. Everything was enunciated and clear, like an alien who had learned English and grammar too well. It was a little bewildering at first, but then it was almost soothing, and very rhythmic.

"Kata Potter," I answered vaguely, still in a kind of trance. I debated giving him my whole name, just to prove that didn't have a problem with long sentences either, but just Kata was easier.

"Short for Katherine?" he asked, almost absentmindedly as well, as his steady fingers began to form a head, and then a face. I realized that my mouth was hanging open like a fish out of water and snapped it shut.

I winced through my marveling at his drawing. "Short for Katarine-Natasha," I admitted.

He chuckled. "Well, that is a mouthful, isn't it?"

I almost laughed, but then shrugged. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

"A lengthy middle name too, perhaps?" he asked giddily, and something about his tone finally snapped me out of my daze, and I looked up into his eyes. They were flat and black, but with a slight glint of something I couldn't immediately name.

"You could say that," I said with another shrug, staring at his eyes curiously. Friendship, I realized. There was nothing lurking in his sys, no secrets. Just friendship.

He laughed again, and it reminded me slightly of Mr Flinker. Always laughing, finding even the worst moments in life funny. I remembered breaking my ankle when I was eight, and laughing the whole way to the Emergency Room because I didn't want to look scared.

"Are your parents etymologists?" He asked it conversationally, but I heard something in his voice that hinted he had a point to the question.

"Eddo-Molly-what?" I replied, confused.

"Etymologists. They are people who study language and, more often, the origins of names. I have a friend who specializes in that field, and her daughter is named Sabina Calypso Lorena. It's amusing, to a degree," he explained.

I shrugged… again. I made a mental note to come up with a few more ways to avoid a question. "My parents aren't etymologists."

He sighed, but not in a sad way, more… dejectedly. I knew what ever he was getting at was coming. "And that brings to light yet another rather prying question. Where are your parents, and why do they willingly let you come here?" He spread his arms out, illustrating the small dusty room, the man who was now stumbling drunkenly to his feet, and the charts up front demonstrating exactly how the chemicals seep into the water.

My expression didn't change, but I sort of bristled at his criticism of his own church. "What's wrong with here?" I demanded. It was a sanctuary in every sense of the word to me.

He laughed at my defense. "How old are you, Kata?"

"Twelve," I answered briskly. He raised an eyebrow and gave me a look. "Ten," I admitted

"And do you think normal ten-year-olds traditionally hang out in places like this?" he asked, keeping his tone light.

I deliberated internally for a moment. " I guess you could say I'm not very normal."

"Oh, I can attest to that," he assured me, and I wasn't sure if I should be offended. "You don't look like a normal child, at least."

I didn't say anything back to him, realizing that he'd go on with or without a response. He didn't disappoint.

"So, you haven't answered, which makes me slightly nervous to ask again." His tone was, just as he said, nervous, edgy. But his face was concerned. "Where are you parents?"

I hesitated. "I'm not a runaway if that's what you're thinking. I haven't made it to that stage yet."

He nodded, and I knew I had guessed correctly at his assumptions. I sort of liked how he stopped his investigation there, not caring who I was as long as I wasn't living as a runaway. It was a nice change of pace.

"And do you plan to run away?" he asked.

I still wasn't sure why I was telling the truth. There was just something about this guy… he didn't want to cause any trouble. Maybe he didn't even want to 'help'. He was just curious.

"I dunno… there's not much reason for me to stick around," I murmured, trying to explain. _But how could I ever fully explain it anyone_, I thought.

He nodded, looking thoughtful. I wondered what the situation would look like to him… It was probably natural to assume that I was a runaway, with my scruffy shoes and lack of parental supervision. I almost liked that people would assume that. It made me feel strangely independent.

Mr. Millerton started talking again, jerking me from my thoughts.

"You say there's no reason for you to stick around," he began uncertainly, breaking off and looking away for a second, like he was reluctant to finish. It didn't make any sense to me why he didn't seem to want to have this conversation, yet he was pushing it on. "But does that mean that there's any reason for you to go?"

That stunned me for a few seconds, because I hadn't truly thought about it. I just wanted to get away from this town… I hated that I was attached to the people here, or any other aspect of it. And I wanted to get to Hogwarts and start proving that I could do magic just as well as anyone else.

I had always linked those two goals together because they had always been the same in my mind. Get out of Little Whinging… get to Hogwarts. They were the same… weren't they?

Yes, of course they were. Nothing was really wrong here, except that I was I the wrong place. If I fixed that, everything would be fine again. Jilly would be my friend again, I could stop failing school… even my Twenty Things would come more easily. I knew exactly what I wanted and I thought I knew how to get it.

So I shrugged and tried really hard not to roll my eyes. "That's just how it is for me. And… I don't mean to be rude, but my situation doesn't really fall into any normal category. Trust me, you'll get confused if you keep trying to work it out."

He smiled a bit condescendingly. "Ah, but it's human nature to believe that we are so complicated that no one can possibly understand us. We all want to believe that we have a right to be angry, because then there is an excuse for our behavior."

I groaned a little bit. "You're just like my teacher," I told him sullenly. "Same warped kind of way of looking at the world."

He chuckled and beamed. "I love this!" he exclaimed. "Don't you know, Kata? Hasn't anyone told you yet? The world itself is warped. How is there any right way to look at it?"

I debated for a moment, and came up with an answer. "Maybe there isn't one right way," I suggested, but I thought that was reaching a bit. "Maybe there's just a lot of wrong ways. Like… it doesn't matter if I don't see the world for exactly what it is… as long as I don't see one group of things for what they aren't."

"I suppose I see what you're saying," he conceded with a nod. Then his face transformed into a grin again. "Puppet strings don't hurt as much as pride, right?"

He passed me back my notebook, and I saw what he'd drawn.

I gasped out loud. It was that amazing. His face, perfectly copied onto paper... exactly what I'd been trying to draw. All the smile-lines were there, the little creases below the eyes, the way a couple strands of hair kind of fell into his eyes.

I glanced up at him, attempting to keep my face from showing the complete awe I felt. He smiled, again a bit dejectedly.

"You really have to know yourself to be able to draw a self-portrait. I saw the one you did a couple pages back… I'd say you were on the right track."

He winked stood up, and walked leisurely to the front of the room.

Hurriedly, I flipped two pages back, racking my brain and trying to remember when I'd drawn a self-portrait.

I hadn't. It was the leaf I had glued from mine and Jeremy's clubhouse tree, just starting to shrivel at the edges.

This time I did roll my eyes. When were people going to stop shoving metaphors down my throat?

Snow kept falling.

**********

"Run!" Marty Cahill shrieked at Roger, who was sprinting as fast as he could around the bases, sneakers squeaking against the newly-waxed gym floor.

"Kick it higher, Danielle!" Winnie cried to her friend, who was still in her white flip-flops and high ponytail. Huh. So I was wrong. It was Danielle and not Tonya/Tammie.

"I wanna be pitcher! She's done it for, like, two innings!" Abigail complained to no one in particular. And I had to say, I backed her up completely. Sherrie couldn't pitch her way out of a wet paper bag.

My entire class was in the gym, playing a game of kickball and screaming at each other. It was too cold to play outside, so we were confined to the gym, meaning that every noise ricocheted a hundred times against the high ceiling and concrete walls. Every slap as the kickball hit the ground, every shriek as someone was tagged, magnified against the air. It added to the effect nicely.

I turned to Mr. Mendota and raised an eyebrow. "How is this Science again?" I asked. He clapped his large hands together in applause as Sherrie actually pitched the kickball hard enough that it made it to home plate.

"Force equals mass times acceleration!" he boomed with a laugh. He paused, the added after consideration, "Great acoustics, too."

I rolled my eyes, scuffing my high-top toe against the gym linoleum. "Yeah," I muttered, not meaning for him to hear. "And kickball game plus 'picked last for teams' equals Kata sitting on the bench. See, it's math, too."

He didn't say anything to acknowledge that he had noticed, but his eyes started darting around, and suddenly he shouted, "Derek! Out for Kata!"

Derek walked at his usual slow, careless pace towards the bench, but I was barely watching him. I had rounded on Mr. Mendota, glaring ferociously.

"I didn't say I wanted to play!" I hissed indignantly. He grinned at my expression.

"Exercise is good for the soul," he countered and waved me out to shortstop.

I gave him a long once-over, and then crossed my arms across my chest, fixing him with a like-you-can-make-me glare.

He stared evenly back, and then said, "I'll teach you the secret to beating me at chess."

We had played about fifteen more times, and I had lost every one of those fifteen times. The pointless struggle was a serious thorn in my side, and I now forcefully maintain that a chance at winning was the only reason I went out to play.

The inning was almost up, and when Robin accidentally caught the kickball to make the last out (don't ask me how you accidentally catch a kickball) my team rushed up to the front, jostling each other to be first in line to kick. I ended up in the back, with Abigail and Kyle behind me… and Jilly Hanks right in front of me.

She was staring determinedly away from me, her curly ponytail pointed in my direction. Her sneakers were covered in pink glitter, and her socks had little fluffs of lace. Overall she was the last person on Earth you would think to be my best friend.

But Jilly and I had once been as close as Jeremy and I. We had all the basics of a little girl friendship: the sleepovers where we never seemed to sleep, the saving seats at the lunch table, the endless stream of giggles at jokes that no one else thought were funny.

And now I was alone at school, and Jilly was glittering it up with Winnie and Crew, like a couple weeks back when Mr. Mendota had first given out the Twenty Things assignment.

So I'm a little bitter. Excuse me.

But if there were one friendship I wanted to keep when I left Little Whinging, besides the Flinkers, I would choose Jilly. Maybe she hated me now… and maybe I didn't know why… but I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to make things right between us, or at least to know why they were wrong.

"Hey, Jilly," I greeted, turning to look at her.

Her eyes flashed once in my direction. "Hi," she spat. And then she was back to staring anywhere but at me, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

I looked down at my shoes until I wound up staring at "Jilly BFF," still emblazoned on the toe. I wondered if she'd crossed "Kata BFF" out on her shoe. No, I reminded myself. She probably got new shoes. Biting my lip, my head snapped up, and I looked at anything but the shoe.

So that's how we stood for about two minutes, as the line shifted occasionally. With Jilly staring anywhere but me, and me staring anywhere but down. The silence hung thickly in the air, and each of us was too stubborn to break it.

Her anger won out over my curiosity. "So," I began. "I haven't talked to you in a while."

It was a dumb conversation starter, and I knew it, but I couldn't think of anything else.

"No," she replied cuttingly. "I didn't want to talk."

"Why?" I hazarded to ask. Because I didn't care what she said, as long as it was an explanation and not another insult.

"Everyone knows, Kata," she informed me crossly. I blinked several times.

My heart might have missed a beat, or it might have stopped altogether. Had I really blown it? Did everyone know?

But they couldn't know about me! About magic! How had they found out? Who had told them? Was it Jilly? Was that why she was avoiding me, because she felt guilty? I needed answers.

But more than that, I needed Jilly to understand a couple things.

"Listen, Jilly," I said quickly, hoping that it was only a handful of sixth graders that knew, and not… the whole planet. Maybe it wasn't that bad. Maybe they had spells to erase memories. "I wanted to tell you, honestly. But it wasn't my choice. Every time I turned around, someone was making me swear to keep the secret. And if it helps, I didn't tell anyone else either. You would have been the one I told, Jill. Honestly."

I was pleading by the end, willing her to understand. She looked at me, and it seemed like curiosity was winning out over any anger again.

"I guess I believe you," she finally announced, somewhat grudgingly. "It's not really something I would admit to a bunch of people anyway.

"Oh, no," I corrected, grinning. This was the best way things could have gone. Jilly knew, and she understood and she was still my friend. "It's actually really cool, and exciting. A whole other world, just hidden behind this one!"

Jilly gave me a look that let me know she was questioning my sanity. "What are you talking about, Kata?" she demanded confusedly.

I did the blinking thing again. "What are you talking about?" I demanded right back at her. She meant magic, right? That was the only secret I had to keep, really. Everything branched from magic.

"I'm talking," she informed me irritably, and very quickly, almost like she was embarrassed, "about how your parents aren't really dead, they're in an asylum somewhere, and now your brother is there too, and you're next."

I experienced two heartbeats of shock, and then hurt rippled across my face for about half a second. But in the end, I swallowed my temper and burst out laughing. Because, of course, it was a joke. This was either a joke or a dream. I was going to wake up, on the floor of the smallest bedroom, listening to the snowbrush against the window.

"That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard!" I exclaimed through giggles. But, as I firmly pinched the skin of my right arm, the scene stayed clear and very real. "What do you mean, an asylum? Where did you get that idea?" I demanded, my laughter empty of any really happiness now.

She was back to glaring at me with a cold expression. "Like I said, everyone knows."

I laughed again, a stitch opening in my side; I needed to keep laughing. I'd never laughed so hard that I cried before, but that might have been the moment.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked incredulously.

"I dunno, maybe schizophrenia? Manic depression? Oh, wait… don't tell me. I have an irrational fear of ballpoint pens, right? Something silly like that, right?" I laughed, grinning widely despite the ice cube sitting in my stomach, expanding to fill my insides. "Be careful, the insanity is catching!" I warned, control slipping.

"Yeah, I guess so," she spat, and for the first time I noticed that she was back to using her cutting, icy tone. "I should stay away from you, Kata. You've messed up enough of my life, and your own."

She moved forward to kick, and I stood there dumbfounded, hearing the exaggerated sounds of the gym.

I probably should have been upset and sad right then, but I wasn't. Instead, I was boiling mad. I would stake my life on the fact that Winnie started those rumours. And now she had my best friend believing them?

And what did Jilly mean when she said that I had messed up enough of her life? I could understand that she was offended that I had blown her off last summer when I was learning about the worlds and that space between them, but wasn't that overstating things a bit?

My mind concentrated on this fury, and it built inside me. I didn't even stop to consider the fact that it was partially my fault, or that the hatred in the pit of my stomach was as irrational as Jilly's claims. All I wanted was for something to happen to prove that I was still in charge, at least of my life. Because maybe that was all I had left.

_Who needs Jilly_, I thought. My eyes narrowed as her foot came back to kick the rubber ball rushing toward her. Sherrie had finally managed to push the ball with enough force that someone could get a decent kick, and it looked like that was exactly what Jilly was going to do.

And then the world did something I didn't expect. It switched to slow motion, time rolling smoothly past me. Every motion and movement of my classmates became evident to my eyes. I saw everything. Every noise, already embellished a hundredfold, was the loudest thing in the world. I heard everything. But all I felt was anger, almost a bloodlust.

I was so aware of the world. All was laid out for me to see.

Including a flash of purple-black smoke around where Jilly was standing just as her foot connected with the ball, the sound of an explosion, and a high-pitched scream from within the smoke.

When it cleared, Jilly was on the ground, a bewildered expression making her eyes wide with fear and confusion, and a scorch mark on the bottom of her T-shirt. She stared up at the ceiling, momentarily stunned, and her arms and legs were sprawling around her on the cold linoleum.

But that was not the first thing I noticed about her. The first thing I noticed about her was that her hair, already ridiculously curly, now closely resembled the Bride of Frankenstein's. It stood on end, sticking together in frizzy clumps. If you looked closely, there were even small streaks of white against the light blonde, stretching from her forehead to the top of her two-foot tall 'do.

Everyone was moving at once, crowding around her. Everyone except me, that is. I was a Kata-statue, not moving, and barely breathing. Did I still need air?

But as Jilly pushed herself into a wobbly sitting position, as my classmates babbled faintly about what they had and hadn't seen, and as Mr. Mendota blew long and hard on his whistle and rushed over, my mind was whirling.

There was no doubt in my mind that I had done that. I had used _magic_. On _Jilly_. And she had gotten hurt.

I knew there was a dark side to magic, curses and charms and hexes designed to inflict pain and humiliation. But I'd never dreamed that I might be capable of a thing like that.

I was disgusted with myself, but mostly I was scared. The magic had just come shooting out of me; I had never consciously decided anything. Could things like that happen? Could I hurt people I loved just by looking at them and getting angry?

All my thoughts of just seconds ago, thoughts of hating Jilly and not caring if she was my friend or not were gone. I looked at her, on the ground, as she rose shakily to her feet with the help of Mr. Mendota. I looked at her and I nearly started crying.

But I didn't, mainly because of what Jilly did next.

"She did that!" Jilly yelled shrilly, pointed a quivering finger in my direction. I swallowed. "She did it to me with her eyes! I swear she did!"

"No," I whispered, meeting her eyes. Her expression was livid, but I had no idea what my face looked like. Most of my body was still frozen; only my lips were free to do what they wanted. "No, Jilly, I didn't."

I wasn't sure if she could hear me, but if she couldn't she barreled on anyway.

"Something's wrong with you, Kata!" she screamed, advancing toward me. She got very close, so that her nose could have touched mine if I had enough power to lean forward. "What did you do to me?" she cried, shooting lasers out of her blue eyes. I stood, stupidly staring straight ahead, my own eyes wide and reflected in hers. I willed my lips to move, to deny everything like I always did. But I wasn't sure if I still had lips, though I knew I'd said something a moment ago.

I wanted to block everything out. I imagined the window above me shattering, thick, braided rope being tossed through. I grabbed the rope and was pulled into another world…

And Mr. Mendota's voice brought me back.

"Jilly," he broke in sternly. He placed a hand on Jilly's shoulder and pushed himself between us. "Jilly, calm down. Kata wasn't touching you. I don't know what happened, but--"

"I told you, she did it with her eyes!" Jilly roared, fists clenched at her sides. I looked down and examined my own hands: stubby fingernails, chapped palms, paper cut on my right index finger. Unfortunately, my hands did nothing to distract me from Jilly's rambling. "I was just standing there, and then--"

Mr. Mendota interrupted her again. "Winnie, Danielle, take Jilly to the nurse."

Winnie and Danielle came rushing forward, and helped Jilly out of the gym doors. I didn't think she needed help; she seemed to be supporting her own weight fine. But it didn't feel like the moment to say anything.

Everyone's eyes were on me, boring into my skin. Some were harmlessly curious, some were a little frightened, but others were livid, like Jilly. They believed what she had said: I had done that with my eyes.

I didn't say anything. Because what was I supposed to tell them? That they were wrong?

But they weren't.

***********

I was pretty sure my lower lip was going to fall off soon; I had been biting hard since we'd arrived back in the classrooom. There were just seconds in the day left, and ever since our kickball game had been abandoned, my mind had been racing, trying to come up with a plan to talk to Jilly. The clock wasn't cooperating at all, and the moments dragged infuriatingly, filling me with anticipation.

Melanie was still sneaking little glances at me whenever she thought I had turned away. She was in the frightened group, as I called it. Curious, scared, angry. Three sharp, staccato words, like my impatiently drumming fingers as I willed the clock and time itself to hurry up.

Sherrie was the only one I couldn't categorize, mostly because she was doing what Sherrie did best. She was staring at me blankly and unabashedly, not even looking away when I met her glance. She would just blink and keep watching calmly.

I honestly didn't care what Sherrie, or anyone else for that matter, thought. All I wanted was to explain to Jilly… not that it was likely she'd forgive me. Still, against all logic, I wanted her to know everything.

Everything.

The shrill, piercing sound of the bell that I had never loved so much rang through the classroom. I flew to my feet and snagged my already-packed bag off my chair. Jilly had obviously guessed what I had been planning, and she was already out of the room, leaving her friends behind.

Fine with me. Like I want to talk to them anyway.

I rushed out of the classroom, preparing to sprint down the hallway after her.

But navigating the hallways of Stonewall Primary right after the bell has rung is like trying to bike through a sandstorm. I know… how many kinds can there possibly be in a town this small? But even pushing, shoving, and occasionally kicking someone out of my way, it took me forever to get to the stairs, and another forever to get outside.

And then I did start running. A flat out sprint, actually, because Jilly had a head start and I had no idea where I was going. Snow whipped my face, settling in my hair.

A flash of light gold caught my eye. I wasn't too late! Jilly was walking very quickly towards the street, her hair secured one more in a ponytail that stuck straight out behind her.

"Jilly!" I shrieked as I started running again. Her neck twitched like she wanted to look back, but at the same time she knew who was calling. "Jilly!"

She started running, but I was faster; I always had been. I rushed up behind her and caught her arm.

Jilly screamed furiously and tugged on her arm. I held on tight, ignoring the stinging flakes that bit my cheeks before melting.

"Let go of me!" she howled. A couple parents shepherding puffy-coated kindergarteners into mini-vans stopped and stared at us openly. "Let go, Kata! Get away from me!"

"Just let me explain," I pleaded, nearly panting from the effort of holding her into place. I glanced quickly over my shoulder, very aware that we were only a few yards away from the school. Unsecured by a winter cap, my curls blew around my face in the harsh wind, and I felt my ears go numb.

"I don't want an explanation! I want you to get the heck away from me and _stay away!_" she roared, enunciating the last two words so harshly that they echoed around my mind.

"You do want my explanation! I promise! You'll understand!" I argued, making promises to myself as much as I was to her. My mind would not except that Jilly could turn away after she got the full story. She had to listen.

And it seemed like she would. She finally stopped struggling, and she turned to face me. I have never seen anyone turn so slowly in my entire life, head barely moving, it seemed, but eventually reaching the point when her eyes found mine. Her face was cold and hard like stone as she looked at me. Reluctantly, I released her arm, but she didn't run.

She spoke.

"Fine," she growled, her lips turning red from cold. Her teeth looked very white against them, like my skin against my hair. "What is your amazing explanation for trying to kill me?"

In that moment, my plan fell flat. I drew a complete blank, nothing from my brilliant solution remained.

"I didn't mean to" I squeaked, fighting hard to keep my eyes up. "I swear I didn't."

Both of us were swearing a lot of things today. Only more was riding on my promises.

Jilly's mouth popped open with an audible click. Her eyes narrowed in anger, and then her eyebrows turned down at the ends in hurt, and at the end, her expression was some combination of the two.

"What?" she gasped, her voice low and scared. A gust of snow slapped us both in the face. "What did you say?"

I swallowed, very aware of the fear in her voice. "I said I didn't mean to," I repeated, my heart somewhere around my throat. I had no idea where the rest of my insides had gone. Maybe they'd jumped ship. "It was an accident, Jilly, I have to tell you something."

I didn't care that I wasn't supposed to do this. What did it matter? I accepted that the promises for me and by me weren't exactly fault-for-fault, but I had been attacked. That proved that I was unprotected and truly alone. So what would it matter if I did this? It was just Jilly, and I kept telling myself that she'd understand.

Jilly was totally beyond being able to respond, and I didn't know if she was waiting to hear my secret, or even if she could still hear me. I just kept talking, wondering how to begin my story.

I decided that beginnings were too hard; better to launch right into the hard stuff.

"Jilly, I'm a witch."

That roused her, and she glared, frowning. "I know."

I almost sighed at her interpretation, but instead I barreled on, talking faster and faster. "No, Jilly. Like, a real witch. I can do magic, and there's a whole other world, my world! I was trying to tell you, but then you started talking about insane asylums, and how I somehow messed up your life. It made me so mad, and the magic just came exploding out of me. But I couldn't control it, Jill, that's the thing. I never meant to hurt you, or anyone. You have to believe me! I promise, magic is the most amazing thing in any world, ever! You just have to listen!"

My words were slurring together by the end, and Jilly kept shaking her head robotically. I started talking again, desperately.

"That's where Harry is, at a school for magic! Imagine that, Jilly, a whole school for magic. I'm going next year, and my parents were wizards, too. I didn't know until last summer, that's why I was never around, and I'm sorry about that. I should have told you when I first found out but I couldn't. They all made me promise to keep the secret. But I don't care anymore! It shouldn't matter."

Somewhere in the middle of my rambling, Jilly ran away. She hitched her pink backpack up on here shoulder, and disappeared, still shaking her head and murmuring, "No, no, no," to herself. I had never seen Jilly run so fast. She wasn't a runner.

"The school is called Hogwarts," I continued, not fully grasping that I was talking to myself. Maybe I was crazy, like Jilly said. Maybe every single person in the worlds was crazy. "It's a castle, like in a fairytale. I think the whole thing is a fairytale. But I don't know much more about the castle because Harry hasn't written in a while. I know there's a reason, so I'm not worried. Aunt P and Verno never told me I was magic. I think they're scared. I would be, too, because apparently some lunatic tried to kill Harry when we were younger. No one ever told me what role I played in that story, but he must have been trying to kill me too, right? Why else would he have attacked me?

"I think Harry asked them not to tell me. It's the sort of thing he would do, right? But I want to know, because what if this whole thing is my fault? I was only about four months old, but I must've done something. No one ever told me what, though. No one told me what Voldemort was doing at our house, or why Harry lived, or why I don't have a scar like his. But I'm not supposed to know, right? Like I said, I'm not worried."

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, not quite sure what had just happened. My mind was fuzzy, full of unclear images, names and things and faces I couldn't place.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw someone else disappearing over the hill, out of sight.

The mane of odd, bronze-streaked blonde hair that billowed out behind the person was oddly similar to that of Sherrie Parker.

Later that night, when I couldn't sleep, I reached into my bag, pulled out _Alice's Adventure's In Wonderland_. I opened the front cover and began to read:

Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book that her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, _and what's the use of a book_ Alice thought, _without pictures or conversation?_

I couldn't say that I agreed with her. In that moment, I didn't have any pictures or conversations to add to my Twenty Things notebook.

**Chapter End Notes:**

Thanks for reading! Keep checking for updates, there's one coming soon.

_Eva_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Notes: **It's the holidays, and I've had a little time, so I thought I'd put chapter seven up. Chapter eight… may take a while, but just enjoy this one for now. BTW, this is the last introductory chapter. I've set the scene, given y'all the character, and now the plot begins! Huzzah. Read on, minions…

**7. More Complicated Feelings I SERIOUSLY Could Have Done Without**

Looking back, I would say that everything started to go wrong around the fourteenth of December. Sure, things were wrong before then, but I didn't notice. I was too busy planning, convincing myself that I would be out of Little Whinging before the year was up. Unfortunately, when you spend all of your energy ignoring a problem, more arise very quickly.

Since the incident with Jilly, I hadn't really given up on my Twenty Things, but I certainly wasn't looking very hard. I wandered around, doing various things to keep my mind occupied, and for a long time I didn't write anything in my notebook.

I had five days left, and every one of them mattered.

************************************************************************

It was too cold to breath. The teacher's lips were a faint bluish color, and my skin was translucently pale. It was way too cold to move. Recess had been done away with; the last thing Headmistress Schnook needed was a bunch of frostbit kids. We were confined to the cafeteria, armed with blocks and thirty-six-piece puzzles. It was way, _way_ too cold to pedal a squeaky, rusty bike two miles to school, going with the assumption that I wanted to keep all of my fingers and toes. I took the bus.

It was probably a major health risk. You know that cartoon, where Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck are fighting over whether it's duck season or rabbit season? Well, there was no debating at Stonewall Primary: Kata Season all the way. I was beginning to sympathize with Joan of Arc, though I wasn't sure if she was a witch, or just had some freaky religious parasite in her head.

Anyway. Bus. Cold. Ostracized.

We sixth graders claimed the back row. Spitballs soared over cracked leather seats, and I stayed in the cocoon of a huge jacket I'd found balled up in the attic, probably Dudley's from when he didn't have to have his clothes specially tailored. My thin, worn sweater wasn't cutting it. I was forgetting what it felt like to have feet.

There was a certain social code as to who sat with who on Ms. Greffet's bus. Winnie and Tonya/Tammie/Danielle sat together because… well, they were them. Sherrie (who might have heard) and Melanie usually paired up because no one else really wanted to hold more than a two-word conversation with either. Kyle and Marty. Pete-From-The-Other-Class and Shane. Gemma 'n' Emma, the twins. I sat alone. I was the outcast. I was the village leper.

I was trying very hard to convince myself that I didn't mind much.

Even with the heaters humming and roaring, I could hear them laughing, too loudly for it to really be funny. I wondered when everyone got so manipulative. No one was like this last year. Last year, everyone was your friend.

I was pretty sure they'd all held a secret meeting and decided to totally and completely freeze me out. No one even looked at me. As soon as I sat down at a lunch table, everyone else got up. The nametag from my desk went missing, and I found it balled up in the girls' lavatory trashcan. They wanted to take away my name, make me an unfortunate background image. I wanted to rip their throats out. We were on good terms, considering.

Alec beaned me with a spitball. _How can spit not freeze in this weather? _

Whatever. I did card tricks in my mind and reviewed my newest plan, Operation G.O.O.L.W.B.C.B.A.T.G.T.H.A.P.E.W. silently. Tell you about that one later.

The bus shuddered to a stop in front of the front doors, and the real test of character began. Everyone thinks it's cool to sit in the back of the bus until you've got first graders beating you to the heated halls of Little Whinging Primary. The sixth graders stormed forward. _We_ will exit first, thank you very much. Most of the younglings learned their lesson early, and the ones that didn't now preferred to carpool.

Slush crunched under my boots as I hopped down from the bus, and I almost lost my footing on the gray ice, slipping and grabbing the sleeve of Alec's coat for support. He shook me off like a rag doll. I glared and scooped up some snow with my mittens, which were really gardening gloves. Here's how it went: Snow, crunch, crunch, cold, wind-up, heave, splat, giggle, curse.

By the time he turned around, I was safe behind a brick pillar. He started to come after me, but then realized that fighting back would include acknowledging my existence. Duh. His eyes penetrated the pillar and glared at me, silently wishing me nothing but unhappiness. I stared back evenly. He retreated, and I sighed.

Suffice it to say that I was not having a good week. I barely slept, and when I did, I dreamt of Sherrie (who might have heard), a knowing little smile of her face, throwing green notebooks at me. She transformed into an owl, scratched me with her talons and hooted, "Your fault! Your fault! Bad Kata! Your fault!"

I was getting messed up in the head.

The Headmistress had taken a "personal interest" in what happened with Jilly. In the first round of Spanish Inquisition, I gave her innocent smiles and tried to deny everything. The second, I made snide comments and counted the ceiling tiles. In the third, I didn't speak. I believe the Guardians were contacted.

So, yeah. A generally horrible week.

I ducked out from behind the pillar and trudged along, fully aware that my attitude didn't help anything. What did anyone expect of me? They were the ones that kept reminding me of my age, like at any minute I would stop and slap my head and say, "Really? Only ten? Completely slipped my mind!" But I didn't feel ten: I felt like a little girl who had been brought up a nobody, informed that she was a somebody, dumped by two worlds, and laden with her parents' deaths. Pre-adolescence sucked.

Trudge, trudge, trudge. Everyone else was inside now.

Alec hated me. Jilly hated me. Winnie hated me. Heck, even Sherrie (who might have heard) probably hated me, and Sherrie (who might have heard) still didn't know the name of our school. I couldn't face Mr. Mendota, knowing that I was all but done searching for the Twenty Freaking Things. Two more steps, and I reached my breaking point: we were scheduled to visit Mrs. Bridge and her Crayons of Destiny.

_Nope. No way_, I thought. _Sorry, God/Buddha/Allah, whichever one of you  
has it out for me. I'm dodging you for this round. _I set my jaw and turned resolutely around, walking quickly but surprisingly calmly. Emotions battled in my head, and I ignored all of them until the sidewalk ended and I turned left.

Freedom was beautiful.

The initial effect of skipping school was so elating that I almost didn't feel the cold. My boots snapped in and out of snow drifts quickly, a brisk trot formed by independence that couldn't be dampened by snow. Where to go? Quik Mart, Our Lady of the People… the possibilities were semi-endless! I could even go home, sneak through the window, try to sleep.

Step, step, step. Bird's wings on my back.

The adrenaline slowly wore off as I wandered around, trying to hold onto the pleasure of this small victory. The cold found its way into my skin, and I vibrated with shivers. Maybe I should turn around. It had only been ten minutes. It was a stupid idea, after all. Skipping school. Childish. Overrated. I scowled.

I huffed and walked resolutely in another direction, any direction. The cold was nearly unbearable, like my very bones were chilled and my skin had hardened into ice. After a rumble from the sky, frigid rain began to drop against the concrete, and I shivered convulsively.

And then I stopped in my tracks. Hurrying along the side of the icy road, directly across the street from me, was a figure in a salmon pink overcoat and a neat, lace-trimmed hat pulled over her hair-sprayed 'do.

Aunt P.

No wonder she didn't recognize me: my thick, tomato-red hair was stuffed under a hat and inside my jacket, I was so small I probably looked like a navy coat bobbing down Main Street at a decreasing pace. And Aunt P. wasn't one to notice details.

She disappeared into the local grocery store, Dierberg's, her boots squeaking on the rubber mat as the automatic doors whooshed open for her. Through the clear glass windows, I saw her pick up a basket and pace down to the produce section.

I followed, luxuriating in the warm air as it touched my skin. Breathing shallowly like a fish, I gulped as much hated air down as I could, shed five-pounds worth of winter gear, and crept along the aisles like spy. I paused briefly to mock myself, looking at what I had come to. Ditching school and stalking my aunt in her ho-hum life. Pathetic. Tempting, as a memory of the cold invaded my mind.

She plucked two apples from a bin, said hello to Ms. Winch, and made her way to the junk food. Figured. Dudley was coming home for the holidays. We needed to stock up.

Following Aunt P was even stupider than skipping school. I found the Foreign Dishes section, where she would be sure not to venture, and plopped down, leaning against a display of Chow Mien.

_Dear Friend,_

I'm running out of paper in this notebook, but I've got PLENTY in the other one. I haven't got a clue what to do there.

Everything's screwed up. I need to get to Hogwarts fast. Pronto. Ex-treem-ily Quick-ily. School is boring, but skipping is worse. Ignoring Aunt P is probably wrong, but the woman is dull as dishwater. I'm tired.

Any other complaints, you ask. Tons. Wanna hear 'em? No, you say. It'll be 

"What a storm!" a deep, half-recognized voice exclaimed. I jumped out of my skin and looked up in alarm.

"Boo," the voice said, smirking.

The first thing I noticed, naturally, was that it was Mr. Millerton, and that he was sitting down next to me, looking committed to being there for a while. But the second thing was that he was sporting the weirdest assortment of clothes I had ever seen, and I had seen Mrs. Figg, my sometimes-sane neighbor.

Despite the cold, he wore lime green shorts with purple stitching (showcasing a pair of long, hairy legs), a light blue oxford shirt with a red plaid tie, short argyle socks, running shoes that looked brand new, and a cummerbund. His short dark hair was all but hidden under a fedora covered with smiley face stickers, and he reeked of cheap cologne. I realized I had never seen him in anything except the rumpled suit he wore to Our Lady of the People.

"What did you do to piss off your stylist?" I asked in surprise, holding back a laugh.

"Is that how you greet people?" he asked back, obviously offended. Which made me want to laugh harder. "You know, you're not much better in that area yourself."

He had a point. My clothes were slightly mismatched, but at least it was deliberate. I'd been reading fashion magazines laying around the house, and had been trying to copy the looks.

I shrugged, and then narrowed my eyes. "Are you following me?" I asked suspiciously.

He considered for a second, and then answered, "Yes."

I rolled my eyes. "As long as you're honest," I muttered, shutting my notebook and sliding it into the front pocket of my backpack.

He eyed it with something that might have been interest… except it was too greedy, too wrongly curious. "Another drawing?" he asked eagerly.

"No."

He chuckled a little and leaned back in his seat, eyeing me. "As long as you're honest," he quoted.

Something was off, and I couldn't exactly place it. . "You seem… different," I observed, not entirely sure what I meant. His voice was gruffer, with a strange edge, and he wasn't giving me any hard-to-interpret lessons about life. He'd seemed so much like Mr. Mendota the lat time we'd talked, and now he could be any guy off the street, except for his odd outfit.

He gave me a half-bitter smile. "I'm not that good of an actor, am I?" he grunted with no more rhythm in his voice.

I was completely lost. "What?"

He shrugged, looking slightly pleased with himself. "There was some stuff I needed to find out about you," he explained, "and I thought it would be easier if I mimicked someone you look up to. Namely, Robert Mendota."

The fact that Mr. Mendota had a name threw me for a second, but I recovered quickly and defended myself. "I do _not_ look up to Mr. Mendota."

He sighed in amusement. "I tell you I'm stalking you, I tell you our last conversation was all about me getting some information… and all you're interested in is denying that you actually care about someone."

I tucked a curl of hair behind my right ear and did not respond, mostly because I didn't have a clue what was going on, and I wasn't about to let him know that.

"S'what I thought," he rumbled smugly. He removed a pack of spearmint gum from his pocket and offered me a piece.

"I don't take candy from strangers," I snapped, and turned away, waiting for him to leave. No surprise, he didn't. "Go away," I ordered, glaring.

"Nope," he chuckled crustily, ripping the paper off a gum and shoving it in his mouth, "This is the fun part, Potter. I have to—" He cut off and removed a worn, wrinkled sheet of paper from his shorts pocket and unfolded it, clearing his throat with mock formality-- "tell you where you should be. That is, what you should be when you grow up. If you grow up."

I decided to ignore that last bit. "What?" I asked yet again. "You don't have to tell me anything, especially what I'm gonna be when I grow up. I'm ten."

"Yeah, I know," he muttered, examining the sheet intensely. "It's part of the job. Would you call yourself a people person?"

"Would you call yourself a monkey?" I shot back sarcastically. "And what job? Our Lady of the People? That's not a job."

"Oh, it's a job," he corrected, not sounding like he believed it himself. "Or, at least, that's what they told me when I got picked for it. I help people make choices. How about animals? Like working with animals?"

I shrugged and answered, "They're okay. I've gotten bitten by my aunt's creepy dog Ripper too many times to be an animal lover, so I guess no. And, isn't the whole point of the Lady of the People that you don't have to make any choices? No religion, nothing serious. It's a fake church for people who haven't got anything going for them. And me."

"Don't talk to me about it," he growled. "Seems pointless, if you ask me. I didn't want this job anyway. Are you good with numbers?"

I fidgeted. My current maths grade was… low. "No. How'd you wind up in a job you don't like?"

I didn't care much, but I wanted to keep him talking. The difference between this Mr. Millerton and the one I had met a week ago was so profound… There had to be a reason beyond what he told me.

"Lost a coin toss with a mate, Fletcher. All they told me was that I help people make the choices they don't want to face. Supposed to be a life-changing thing. I could have my own television show," he mused, smiling at the ceiling.

"And me?" I asked, pulling him from his reverie about mythical spotlights and prime time. "What's my choice?"

"Nothing," he grunted, and I felt a little let down, not quite sure why. Did I want to have problems worthy of a television show?

"Then why are you asking me questions?" I demanded hotly.

"Honestly? You entertain me," he said with a low chuckle. My eyes narrowed, and I grabbed my backpack and pile of padding, shrugging on the coat and hat.

"Leaving?"

"Yeah."

"School makes you smarter."

"Shut it."

~*~*~*~

The next day, I was back.

The school auditorium was wide and open, with faded, red velour seats that creaked when you sat down, and sticky, pockmarked floors. The stage stood, elevated at the front, and the podium that Headmistress Schnook used everyday at assembly had been pushed off to the side to make room for a fake castle tower. Abigail, donning a blue fez with a stringy tassel cocked over her left ear, peeked out from behind a turret, doing her best to avoid the spotlight. Winnie, her curly hair in pigtails, shouted out lines with unnecessary gusto, and Alec scuffed the toe of his shoe against the wood floorboards, looking like he had as much of a brain as his character. Liam and Brady slouched beside him.

Me? I waited backstage, eyeing the sandbags over my head and preparing to drop the curtain as soon as Robin collapsed to the ground shrieking, and Kyle seized her broomstick.

That's right. A witch. See the irony?

My class was performing _The Wizard of Oz_ in the infamous Winter Exhibition. Basically, it was a chance for parents to come and watch their kids do something completely un-school-related on stage. The kindergarteners were singing a song about friendship, the third graders had a short skit planned about "doing the right thing", and Mr. Mendota's sixth grade class had chosen to act out the climactic scene from _Oz_, in which the witch dies and Dorothy is saved. Supposed to be a "good triumphs over evil" thingy.

I never liked the Wizard of Oz, not as much as I was growing to like Alice in Wonderland, though the stories were similar. Dorothy gets hit on the head by a window, has a weird dream, and learns an important lesson about how it's stupid to run away from home when there's a tornado outside. The only interesting parts were the hot air balloon and the wizard who wasn't really a wizard.

"I'm melting! I'm melting!" Robin bellowed, the effect somewhat ruined by how she pronounced each syllable of her lines with great care.

"Quick! Get the broomstick!" Winnie shrieked, facing her invisible audience and giving them a winning smile. Kyle jumped at his cue, but recovered and grabbed the hockey stick Robin held out towards him. Her cape billowed around her, and I understood why it had to be seventeen sizes too big. She lay on the ground, her eyes closed and her tongue lolling out unconvincingly, and the folds of black silk made her look like a puddle of melted witch with a head sticking out.

I tugged on the rope, too hard, and the curtain rushed down and slammed heavily on the stage floor. Winnie jumped back, and I hid behind a chair from last year's Spring Musical, giggling. Everyone was convinced I was a serial murderer, or something.

"Curtain, Kata!" Mr. Mendota shouted from the seats. I obediently pulled on the ropes, making the curtain rise one slow foot at a time. You wouldn't think a sheet of stained velvet would be so heavy, but it was.

Our teacher climbed the steps to the stage just as the curtain clicked into place in the rafters above. His navy beret, usually reserved for art class, sat perched on his head, and his rectangular glasses were low on the bridge of his nose. I was waiting for the goatee and puffy pants tucked into socks.

"Great work, everyone," he praised, smiling at Robin and motioning that it was all right for her to stand now. "It's really coming along. Flying Monkeys, don't be afraid to come a little more forward," he added, craning his neck to see Shane, Derek, Ann, and Abigail, all of whom were behind cardboard turrets, and Marty and Laura, who were off stage altogether. Almost everyone had been cast as a monkey or a guard member. Jilly, Melanie, and Roger stood like sentries with fake spears, and that just left me, Oscar, Sherrie (who might have heard), Caleb, and Gemma 'n' Emma, the twins, as stagehands.

"See you tomorrow!" Mr. Mendota cried, and I realized he had been talking for a while, maybe even directly to me. I followed the hoard of my classmates to the back row of seats, where our backpacks and coats were scattered. Humming tunelessly to myself, I tugged on my coat and pulled my bag over my shoulder, stepping out into the hallway/fray. As usual, people were everywhere, running in every direction with backpacks bouncing on their shoulders. I reached for the pack of gum in my pocket and came up empty.

Frowning, I patted my back pocket, which also held no gum. I bit my lip resolutely and turned back toward the auditorium's double doors.

When I entered, though, I forgot all about spearmint.

I had never been in the auditorium alone before, and the silence hit me like a tangible sack of bricks: hard and immediately. I was afraid to let the door swing shut, scared to even take a step forward, because I was sure that either one would sound like an explosion.

"Oh," I breathed, but it didn't shatter the quiet. My tiny voice bounced around the room, ricocheting against walls, and clattering back down to me. Experimentally, I released my grip on the door, and it swung shut with a spectacular boom, shooting waves of vibrating sound out into the hall.

My sneakers snapped against the sticky ground as I slowly marched to the front of the room. The stage suddenly had an irresistible pull, and I wanted to stand on it and look out at the empty seats. I wanted an audience that loved me, that would think I was the best thing they'd ever seen.

Slowly but eagerly, I climbed the steps.

The lights on the stage had been dimmed, but not put out, and I found the center of the spotlight, just off the middle of the stage. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and spread my arms out.

This place… This was real magic. It was so easy to forget everything about myself, who and where I was, when there was a stage and a light and a purpose that everyone knew. The silence wrapped around my skin and I felt like flying. Wizards have broomsticks. They have Nimbuses in store windows. I took a deep breath.

When I opened my eyes, the place had transformed. Instead of discoloured velvet, the curtain was made from golden silk, and it gathered at either side of my stage with smooth, red-tasseled ropes. The spotlight was bright again, and comfortable on my skin, illuminating me, making me a pretty, young girl with shiny, blood-red hair and round eyes. Where before the auditorium floor had been sticky and flat, it was now polished and rising smoothly into a curved amphitheater shape. The seats were packed, full of fashionably dressed people, smiling brightly, waving their hands, screaming my name.

"Kata! Kata! Kata! Kata Potter!"

An announcer's deep voice boomed over the crowd's cries. I gave a small smile as he rumbled, "Ladies and gentlemen of Little Whinging, I give you: the one!… The only!… Katarine-Natasha Potter!"

They erupted. I waved.

For a few seconds, I let myself bask in the glow of the spotlight. My dumpy winter coat was a lacey pink princess gown, it did not clash with my hair, and I understood why every little girl wants to be a famous singer: this feeling was programmed into their minds. Who didn't want this? Who…

I blinked, lowering my arms, my lips coming open a little.

Who didn't want magic?

I was not in a magnificent golden amphitheater. There was no crowd, no announcer, and no screams cheering me on, praising me just for being me. I tilted my head to one side curiously, not really sure if I wanted to cry.

I jumped as a sound of real applause reached my ears. Spinning around so fast that I almost fell over, I saw Mr. Mendota standing calmly behind me, leaning against the same turret Abigail had used as a hiding spot. He smiled warmly and clapped his hands slowly.

"Miss Potter," he began, chuckling. "You were simply _born_ for the theater."

I blushed, and tried to remember how to smile.

From behind his back, he pulled the small cardboard shoebox he kept his chess set in. "Rematch?"

~*~*~*~

Ten minutes later, we were set up in the middle of the stage, the spotlight turned off altogether. He had three of my pawns and a knight, and I had his bishop.

"Plans for the holidays?" he asked lightly, eyeing me while I made a bold and hardly subtle attempt at his rook.

I considered whether to tell him what I actually planned to be doing, and decided it couldn't hurt. "I'm applying to a school up north. I'm gonna see if I can start this term, instead of waiting for next year."

"Oh," he said flatly, nodding. His expression was politely interested.

"Yeah. So, I might not be coming back," I warned him, waiting for a reaction.

"That's too bad."

We played in silence, both losing a couple pieces, before I spoke again.

"Mr. Mendota, I… When you… What I mean is…" I didn't know what to say. "What are your Twenty Things?"

He didn't seem surprised. "I can't tell you that."

My eyes snapped up from the board. "Why not?" I demanded angrily.

He sighed. "You may recall that this is an independent project, Kata. You've got to find them on your own."

I gave him an exasperated look. "I'm not asking you to help me find them! I'm just asking what yours are!"

He shook his head. "No. Sorry. I can't help you."

I bit my lip. "Whatever," I grumbled.

"You know, you're only one of three students who hasn't turned theirs in yet," he said, an odd look on his face. "I mean... I expected that you… No, never mind."

I didn't care what he had been going to say. "Who are the others?" I asked eagerly.

"I can't tell you _that_, either, it's confiden--"

"Who are the others?"

He huffed. "In this class, Jilly Hanks, Sherrie Parker, and you have not yet found the Twenty Things That Make the World Go 'Round."

I nodded slowly. I couldn't say I was surprised about Sherrie (who might have heard)… she was just weird. But Jilly? Jilly seemed like she had it all figured out. I'd thought she would be first in line to show everyone how perfect she was, how wonderful her Twenty Things were.

"What were you thinking about?" he asked, suddenly. "You were onstage, and I believe you were trying to recreate an announcer's voice, but then you stopped, and you looked like someone had broken your heart."

I gave him a look. Broken my heart? What? "I…" I muttered, before clearing my throat and continuing in a stronger voice. "I don't have a broken heart. I've never been in love."

"Oh, all kinds of things can break hearts," Mr. Mendota explained knowledgeably. "It's true, people often associate broken hearts with failed romances, but it doesn't have to work that way. A dream, perhaps, that didn't come true. Epiphanies, those are very efficient when it comes to heart-breaking. Some combination, in your case, is my guess."

I looked at centre stage wistfully. "I was thinking about magic," I murmured. "I was thinking that I know why some people believe in it… and some don't."

"Hmm," he said disapprovingly. I raised an eyebrow. "I don't believe in magic," he explained.

I choked on a piece of gum from the pack I'd finally found hiding in my shoe. It bobbed near the edge of my throat. "W-what?" I stammered. "You… you don't believe in magic?"

"I don't believe in anything that could have any control over my destiny," he informed me with a stubborn voice and a shrug. "I want to believe I have that power."

"There is no destiny!" I objected.

"You've got some pretty strong opinions for a ten-year-old," he observed, once again knocking my pride down a few notches at the mention of my age.

"What about wands, and cauldrons and spells? I demanded. He shook his head. "Goblins! Goblins are real. They run banks. And ogres and hags, and people really do use newts' eyes and rats' tails… and they wear robes, and those hats, those pointy hats? They come in a zillion different colours, and…"

This was Jilly all over again, but for crying out loud, Mr. Mendota? People like him had to believe in magic! People like him had artsy wives named Cinnamon, and drove VW vans and listened to strange music about the young French girl who began to fight and die. It was insane for him not to believe in magic.

He was laughing at me. "Do you have experience with these matters?" he asked.

I clammed up. "No."

He shook his head and laughed warily. "I'm never going to get a straight answer from you, am I?"

I had some pretty good sarcastic replies lined up, but he chose that moment to sweep my king off the board with his…

No.

"Pawn!" I shrieked indignantly. "I was just checkmated by a freaking _pawn_?"

He grinned. "It would appear so."

"That was low!" I shouted, my pride seriously wounded. "You distract me with broken hearts and magic, and then…" I trailed off in a huff.

But, through it all, I realized that I wasn't actually upset. How odd. Some lingering feeling of the stage was clamped in my stomach, and I felt… happy. With a lost game, and no friends, and a teacher that didn't believe in magic, I felt weirdly perfect in that moment.

I waited for it to go away. I wasn't sure if I liked feeling happy very much. Being happy was just letting the world line you up for disappointment.

Mr. Mendota appraised my expression. "Sorry about that," he apologized as I calmed down. I surprised myself by smiling.

"S'okay," I answered with a shrug. "I just thought we were done with the whole character building thing."

"Yes, but I did promise to teach you the secret to beating me at chess," he reminded me. The memory seemed foggy, distant. It had been too close to Jilly's accident for me to have much time to dwell on it.

I waited.

"Sacrifice," he announced smugly.

I blinked. "Sorry?"

"Sacrifice. That's how you win at chess. You see, Kata, you're going about it all wrong. You try to protect all of your pieces, except to do that you may have to use one piece to protect another piece that is supposed to be protecting a third piece. It's a vicious circle. A bad idea. You have to accept that, sometimes, you're going to lose men. Chess is a battle. Not everyone survives a battle."

It seemed to me that Mr. Mendota had a remarkable ability to make something small mean something really, really huge without altering his tone of voice at all. I considered his solution, and thought there was no way I could follow that advice. I couldn't let my chessmen die, couldn't let them be cut down in battle for the greater good of the game. That was warped.

I was still happy.

It was infuriating and puzzling, at the very least. Of all the reasons I had to be unhappy… But I was so close. Harry was coming home for Christmas, and I could explain the situation. I needed to go to school with him. I was reasonably smart; I could handle catching up on the work. Believe me, I had it all figured out. And, sitting there, in the auditorium of Stonewall Primary, playing chess with a teacher that didn't think my powers were real, chewing gum and forgetting what kind of person I was… I let myself feel happy. I let myself have a moment.

"I'll leave you alone to ponder that," Mr. Mendota announced quietly. I jumped, and realized I had been sitting still for a while, twisting a pawn round in my fingers. I was zoning out so much lately. It always surprised me when people started to talk.

He packed his chess set, but when I offered him the pawn, he hesitated. "You keep it," he told me. "A reminder. Sacrifice."

I rolled my eyes, enjoying how weightless I felt in my reassurance that everything was going to work out soon.

When the door swung shut behind him, I wandered over to the piano on the side of the stage and pounded out Chopsticks, the only song I knew.

I put the pawn in my jeans pocket.

~*~*~*~

Between the stage, the approaching holidays, and the fact that when I woke up four days later, fluffy snow coated the ground instead of gray mush, my good mood lasted awhile. My Twenty Things were back on. Scribbled words and sketches covered almost the entire east wall of my small bedroom, and Marc helped me compile them all into a list, which she laminated in the Quik Mart break room when Crazy Ben wasn't looking. I almost gave Verno a coronary when I hopped down the stairs, snagged a muffin from the table, and walked lightly out the door, singing 'Jingle Bell Rock' in my horrendous, off-key voice.

It was Christmastime, and I loved Christmas, always had. Hated winter, yes, but Christmas was like a warm patch in a frigid, barren season. Holly garlands were twisted around staircases, red velvet bows set against the clock in Town Square, random carolers placed on street corners, smiling widely as they serenaded busy shoppers. Caravans of cars made their way out of town, driving to a bigger city that actually had a mall. I believed in Father Christmas.

Turned out, Mr. Mendota was also a fan in the holiday season. He just wasn't allowed to sponsor any one holiday, being a public school teacher, so Menorahs, Christmas trees, and whatever those Kwanzaa-candleholder things are called turned up among the globe and encyclopedias. Somehow, everything smelled like gingerbread. Ms. Bridge taught us how to put some paint inside a glass orb, and shake it to create swirl patterns.

It was surreal, how quickly everything had changed. I'd gone from sullen recluse to relatively happy Christmas elf in less than a week. In a fit of insanity, I even stole some paper chains from the attic and strung the around my room, and dug a pair of gold buckles out of Aunt P.'s sewing kit, Super Gluing them to my rain boots.

It was Friday, the last day before the last weekend of the first term. Monday, December 19th, was the last official day of term, but it was mainly devoted to Holiday parties and, at night, the Winter Exhibition, so in my mind I was already free.

I waved merrily to the bus driver when he dropped me off at the top of Privet Drive, and when I arrived home there was an entirely impolite note telling me that Aunt P. and Verno had gone to pick Dudley up from school, they were staying a couple nights in London but would be back in time for their annual Christmas Show-Off Party, and to stay out of their fridge.

I ate a Pop-Tart from the pantry instead.

I left my crumbs rather obviously on the countertop and decided that under no uncertain terms could I sit here while the gleaming, untouched snow beckoned from the backyard. Dudley and his friends would wreck it in no time. I pulled on too-big snow pants that had previously belonged to Mrs. Next Door's daughter, tugging on my coat, a thin scarf, and the garden gloves/mittens, and tromped out into the yard, trying to touch as little snow as possible.

I had no idea where Dudley's sled was, and I wasn't about to venture up to the attic, so I rolled down the hill a few times. Too dizzying. It was eerily silent. The snow seemed to create a tingling sound in the air, and my wet scarf smelled like first grade. I lay quietly on the ground, eyes turned to the sky, for a long time, long enough that snow started to fall again. It stung my sensitive skin. I wondered how long it would take the snow to bury me.

The wet snow seeped through my snow pants and through my jeans too, until the skin of my legs was numb. I'd lost all the feeling in my hands, and clumpy snow stuck to my hat. My hair was spread out around me, staining the snow like blood.

Eventually, my thoughts ebbed. I felt my pulse in my neck beating strongly. My breath was slow and almost silent, stirring the cold air. The most peculiar feeling came over me: I felt like I could look at my life objectively, think things I felt all the time without really offering any real thought. My mind was open wide, a basin for the world to slowly trickle into, to crawl around curiously and examine my feelings. I let go of my body, and soon I couldn't feel any of it (though, in retrospect, that may have been from the cold). I was a tiny, orb of light, floating without senses. I didn't see, or hear, or feel. I simply was.

I'd never understood the term out-of-body experience before, but I was petty sure I was having one. Here, in the snow, soaking wet, I tested this new happiness, seeing how far I could push it. I hovered. I thought I knew what it felt like to be born.

I don't have a birth certificate. Harry might, but Aunt P. never showed it to anyone because it included 'blood status' and the fingerprints wiggled. But there's no record anywhere that I was born. I could have just dropped out of the sky and tacked onto some other family… some other family that ended up dying because I didn't die first.

I wanted to cry. Instead, I opened my eyes, realising with a slight shock that they were closed, and propped myself up on my elbows, blinking blearily, like I'd just woken up.

Snow was still falling, dusting over my coat. It fell off in little drifts when I moved. Icicles hung from the trees… very oddly shaped icicles, too. And they stuck straight up. Huh. Maybe I had gone to sleep and entered Wonderland, a strange wintry Wonderland that Alice hadn't seen. Her Wonderland had been in the summer…

My icicle moved. I frowned, stood up, and slowly walked a few steps forward. My boots crunched in the snow, and I gasped loudly, covering my mouth with snow-caked hands. My heart raced, stopped beating then picked up again.

Because icicles don't have wings. Icicles don't move. And I'm not sure what goes on in Wonderland, but in Little Whinging, icicles don't glare at you with large, amber eyes, hoot softly in annoyance, and ruffle their feathers.

_"Hedwig!"_

**Chapter End Notes:**

Huh. Did I just do a cliffhanger? Weird. Here's some background info on the chapter: it took me forever to figure out all the names of Kata's classmates. I literally had to read back through all the chapters (which made me wince, I can't stand my writing) to see who already existed, and then I had to make up a few. I think everyone's mentioned. There are exactly twenty-two kids, counting Kata. And then PeteFromTheOtherClass, whom I through in at the last moment. Winter Exhibition actually exists; we had to do a show every year when I was in elementary school. The kids generally hated it, but for parents it was the biggest night of the season. I can still remember falling off the stage in my part as a tree with no lines. So, there's my horrific childhood memory. To anyone going back to school soon… my thoughts are with you. I'm having nightmares about junior year! –Eva


	8. Chapter 8

_So. I put two more chapter of this story up on Mugglenet, but I didn't upload them onto here. I'm very, very sorry. I've gotten a lot of positive reviews lately that really help to keep my lethargy and lack of update skills at bay. So, thanks for that. If you're offended by strong language... well, I'd say don't read the scene between Kata and Jeremy, but it's kind of a big, dramatic scene. Oh, well. Make your own descicion. Read on, and enjoy! ~*Eva*~_

It should be discussed that, for one reason or another, I don't function entirely like a normal person. I don't sleep as much, and when I do- as displayed in Mr. Mendota's classroom- I crash hard. There's a great long list of things I'm allergic to, so I don't exactly stuff my face very often. And… well, I was going to say that I don't handle change well. But, truthfully, I don't handle change at _all_. I think there's a little part of my brain that senses when something is wrong, and automatically kicks into overdrive, ignoring the problem and drowning it out with something more trivial.

When I was four, I ate a peanut, and almost instantly started to swell up like a balloon. My lips turned puffy and blue, my vision was obstructed by my enlarging face, and all of a sudden I couldn't draw life from the air. Since I couldn't breathe, I didn't really burst into tears; I just kind of went into convulsions, gripping my throat with my hands and looking around wildly for some kind of help.

Someone started laughing, someone screamed, and the next thing I knew, I was flat on my back on an emergency room table with crinkly paper and white, strangely opaque lights that blinded me further. A face flashed above me, a middle aged nurse with a flyaway bun and cracked lipstick. Spots appeared where they shouldn't be, someone was squeezing my hand, and I just kept thinking, _peanut, ouch, why, can't breathe, hurts, peanut, peanut, how, why, ouch._

And then there was something that didn't even last a second. Something that let air flood into my lungs and then be pushed out again, and something that sent a prick of new pain from my thigh to my spine to right between my eyes. Of course, the real phenomenon was probably the medicine itself—the epi-pen—but little four-year-old me only felt what the medicine had done. In a fraction of a fraction of a second, I felt my heart stop and then resume beating. The smash of blood through my arteries picked up again. And I felt it more clearly, and on a deeper level, than I'd ever felt anything. I was aware, somehow, of my body failing and then picking up right where it left off, my heart refusing to quit. Invincibility was drawn around me like a winter coat.

I think that was why I quit being afraid of anything: because of some childish notion that come rain, stormy weather, or peanuts, I'd pull through, I'd make it out okay.

Yeah… have I mentioned recently that I'm almost always wrong? Good. Then I don't need to reiterate. Let's just keep going, with ten-year-old me and an owl and a snowstorm and my issues with change.

There were three days left. Friday, Saturday, Sunday. The Twenty Things were due Monday, before we left class for the Winter Exhibition. I want you to watch, and keep this timeline in mind. Ponder the limits set upon my shoulders as my plan was shattered and the pieces of it driven through my thin skin like knives. Remember who I thought I was.

Friday.

At ten years old, I was very well versed in taking care of myself when I was sick. This, I supposed, was just one of the many perks of living in a house where the only person who gave two wits about you was your older brother. I knew how to take my own temperature, and prepare a hot water bottle brimming full of heat and comfort. And, perhaps most useful of all, I could hold my own hair as I viciously vomited up everything I'd eaten since the previous Tuesday. A letter, cramped into the shape of my sweaty fist, rested forlornly by my knobbly knees as I practiced this very skill.

It was the third letter Harry had written me since September, and before I even read it I registered how his handwriting had changed. Before, it had all been scratchy and block-like, the lowercase letters merely smaller versions of the capital ones. Similar to my own, accept that his had been legible. Now, it was a kind of semi-cursive scrawl, with the letters running together and overlapping each other like fish scales. I gazed at the change and remembered how he'd spent three solid hours teaching me to tie my shoes when I was four. I'll admit, it was a strange moment to think of, out of the countless ones we'd shared growing up together. But I couldn't help thinking that his new way of writing looked like a puddle of knots.

And there I was.

I like to think of throwing up as a defense mechanism: it's just your body purging itself of all the bad things that have found their way in. I kept my eyes squinted tightly shut as I tossed my cookies, but, to take my mind off of the rancid smell, I pictured every mean word that I'd ever heard and every blow that I'd ever been dealt collecting in the porcelain bowl along with half-digested Pop Tarts.

As my violent sickness turned to dry heaves and then faded into a lingering icky-ness, I shut the toilet lid with a clunk, wound my disheveled hair into a ponytail, and flushed three times for thoroughness. While my breathing fell back into a normal pattern (it's pretty hard to get air when your mouth is otherwise occupied), I folded myself into a fetal position and keeled over on my side on the cold floor of the Dursley's bathroom. The tiles were off-white, and had a little china pattern stamped on their edges in jade green. In my peripheral vision, I followed the rows of sparkling tiles all the way to the mirror-facing wall, where some had broken free from their caulking and were wrestling their way up the trim.

I cannot even begin to describe to you how fascinating I found these tiles, then, in my weakest moment. It seemed like someone needed to appreciate the little things, that was all. The stubborn bathroom tiles, the glorious, light-headed emptiness that came tacked onto bad news and vomiting… the redhead pre-adolescents that got picked last for kickball and sat alone at lunch and were really just hoping to catch a break in the holiday season.

Among other things.

When you lie, you have to make it uniform. If you tell somebody that you're fifteen instead of twelve, then you'd best be ready to forge a birth certificate and other appropriate papers, or at least introduce yourself as a fifteen-year-old from that moment on.

When you keep telling people that you're fine, and that everything is normal in your life, then I suppose you run the risk of starting to believe those things yourself. I mean… I was practically walking up to everyone I knew and saying, "I'm Kata Potter, and I'm fine with everything."

Fine.

There was a steadily growing list of things that I was currently _not_ fine with. I was not fine with the fact that I was currently collapsed on a bathroom floor, I was not fine with the knowledge that I was failing sixth grade, or that I had reached the end of _Alice_ and learned that Wonderland was all a pathetic dream. I didn't much care for the way I had been unceremoniously abandoned—both for the weekend and when I was too young to even support my own head. I hated my age, because people saw it as a way to hold me back, I'd never liked my hair-color because I couldn't wear _anything pink_,and- to be quite honest- I didn't like being a witch in that moment.

Because what was the use of being a witch if you had to live like a Muggle?

I kept up that train of thought, lying on the floor and exhaling though my nose because the scent of my own breath was revolting. Anger boiled next to my heart, but I felt so cold, like I'd been transformed into an ice sculpture of Kata, and was no longer the real thing. Exhausted and freezing, I huddled on the bathroom floor, staring at tiles and wishing for nameless, unreachable dreams.

I was terminally empty; nothing was in me but memories. And I didn't want those. Minutes tripped by, and hours swallowed them, and I was aware of the wind-brushing-the-treetops sound of the sunset. Darkness cried forlornly as it sat on the end of the day. I slept fitfully. I woke up. Never did I try to stand, or budge an inch from the rock bottom I'd reached.

I pondered the perfection of the Dursley's house. It was all wood polish and lace, flawless posh, with no dust bunnies in sight. There wasn't a single piece of china in that house that wasn't chipped. When I once dropped a coffee mug and a little crack curled onto the side, Aunt P just threw it away. From a very young age, I'd understood the symbolism. I was the chipped china and the dust bunny- the short, twiggy girl with impossible hair and a crooked top tooth and green eyes that were obnoxiously larger than the rest of her features. Everyone was finally tossing me into the bin.

Don't tell me that's melodramatic—it's true. I already knew it; I only lay there to finally accept it. On my fourth grade report card, Ms. Owens had written, "Katarine has spunk, and is mature for her age. However, she lacks the patience, discipline, ability, reserve, cooperation, and obedience necessary for real-life interaction." My faults, as displayed there, had always outweighed my strengths. I wasn't trying to be tragic or misunderstood by thinking that, or thinking it now. It just was what it was.

Always.

I began to count the individual seconds of my night, and only stopped when a) I'd reached 1,367 and b) the tinny tone of the doorbell invaded my thoughts and shook me back into reality.

I stuttered down the stairs, disgruntled, wrapped in a navy cardigan that hung around my body and did basically nothing to chase away the chills that were sleeping under my skin. Cold sweat matted my hair, my face was clammy and ashy, and my breath still stunk of vomit. Groggy, I struggled to remember how to work a doorknob. _Twist and pull, _I reminded myself.

The door swung open, and my jaw dropped. Jeremy Flinker, wearing a snow-dotted parka and damp sneakers, stood on the Dursley's front porch. He held a ceramic casserole dish and breathed shallowly in the cold.

I raised an eyebrow. "Jeremy?"

He nodded, his shoulders hunched up to his chin and his entire body tightened against the wintry weather. "Hey, K-Kata," he greeted, stammering. "You look like sh-shit."

I sighed. Jeremy had recently developed a bit of a swearing habit, in a valiant effort to sound more grown up and attract girls.

"Yeah," I deadpanned. I could name at least one girl who wasn't attracted to his new vocabulary, and her name rhymed with 'Mata'. "I know."

"Can I come in?" he asked quickly. "There's a motherfucking blizzard out here."

Surprised, I peeked over his shoulder. In the time that I'd been hovering catatonically (Katatonically. Get it?) on the bathroom floor, the sky had opened up and let loose its wrath upon Little Whinging. The snow chased after buildings and cramped the sidewalks, piling up under trees and weighing down their branches. A threatening, ominous indigo painted the sky, and the streets were pretty much deserted, except for a certain eleven-year-old boy who needed a haircut, and my loony neighbor Mrs. Figg. She sat on her doorstep, petting one of her interchangeable cats and staring right at us. It was like she didn't even notice the cold.

_Oh well, _I thought. _She's loony. _

"Please?" Jeremy pressed. His lips had a faint blue tint.

"What's in the dish?" I asked disinterestedly as I stepped aside and allowed him to scuff into the foyer, spewing snow everywhere as he shed his jacket and boots. Before answering, he made sure to shake out his snow-infested hair and spray me with cold, dirty-smelling water. I grimaced appreciatively.

"It's, uh… potato-noodle casserole," he explained dubiously, eyeing the dish as if it was actually toxic waste." My mum made it, not my dad, so you might want to just chuck it. But she talks to your aunt, and found out that you were home alone for the weekend and didn't know if you could cook for yourself."

I had to smile. Jeremy's family was just so… present. They were the kind of people who said they loved each other before they went to bed, and when they got up in the morning, and when they left for work and school. They had two cats and a handful of fish, and all three kids—Jeremy, his sister Mattie, who was in my year, and his much older brother Finn—were just generally happy.

"I'm home alone all the time," I pointed out, hooking a wild curl behind my ear. Ponytails could only contain my feral mass of hair for so long.

"She was bloody worried about you, though," Jeremy shrugged. "I dunno. I think she just has a lot of time on her hands."

I just stood. After a few seconds of dripping silence, he seemed to finally take in my pinched, stoic expression.

"What the hell, Kat?" he quipped softly, gazing at me nervously. "Are you all right? You look like someone punched you in the face."

Immediately, I lost it. Anger pumped a boil into my blood and fury pinched my hands into fists while I closed my eyes and emptied myself into the bottomless, unfeasible rage that I was shot through with.

"I'll bet I do," I seethed bitterly. He looked taken aback, but I was made of stone. "I mean, why not? Why doesn't everybody just come up and punch me in the face? You can go first, Jeremy. Right now. Just give me your best shot. Let's see if I feel it!"

He took a step back. "What the fu-"

"You'd better finish that sentence with 'funnel'!" I shrieked hotly, crossing my arms and glaring passionately. He gave me a look that suggested I was crazy. It didn't offend me, though, because I was. In that moment- with a letter and a casserole and a best friend who needed a censor button- I was fairly insane. "Because lately, every other word that comes out of your mouth has four letters, and I'm getting really sick of it! You sound stupid. Go suck on a bar of soap."

Temporary shock rang in my ears.

He scrambled for an argument, still giving me the _Kata is crazy_ look. "_I_ sound stupid?" he repeated, anger entering his voice. His arguments were slow-coming, but they picked up speed, shaking off their dust. "I'm not the one screaming about funnels and having people punch me in the face! I'm not the one who's been acting like I'm from bloody Mars since August! And I'm definitely not the one constantly sulking about nothing, or whining about my fucking Twenty Things, or ditching school and failing all my classes, and then blaming the whole damn mess on the world!"

"Who do you want me to blame?" I demanded desperately at top volume, throwing my arms up and taking a defensive step toward him. "Myself?"

"That," Jeremy screeched passionately, boxing me in with his hands, "would be_ wonderful_! For once, Kata, just admit that the world isn't screwing you over just for fun. Yeah, life can suck, but other people have problems, too, and—"

"I challenge you to find a person with more problems than me!"

He groaned, exasperated. "Oh, look at me! I'm Kata!" he imitated, throwing a falsetto into his cracking voice. "Everyone's out to get me-"

"People _are_ out to get me!" I retaliated, remembering Halloween night.

"—and everyone hates me because I'm a _lunatic_-"

"You've got no idea what they say!"

"—and I'm so alone! No one gives a damn about poor! Little! _Me_!"

His tongue sliced me open. His words drew blood from my core, and I stood shell-shocked. I shivered from cold and pain and the unavoidable truth of what he'd just said. Sometimes things just hit you. I'd been avoiding the truth so long, and it couldn't wait to get its restless hands on me.

I didn't even know what lies I was telling myself anymore.

Jeremy knew me well enough to see that his taunts had stuck. "Kat," he whispered. I climbed inside myself. Him: "I'm sorry."

I peeked up from under my hair—which was flailing around my head like a mop now—and glared. There was nothing kind or forgiving left in me. "You think that's funny?" I hissed quietly, staring at my hands as tears clambered into my eyes.

"I didn't mean it like that," he objected hurriedly , but I cut him off by lifting a commanding hand. My fingers were as straight as bone.

"There isn't anyone who _does_ give a damn about me, Jeremy," I whispered, chuckling ironically. "Not you, apparently. Not my aunt or uncle. Not my brother."

"Harry?" Jeremy asked, startled. "What's he got to do with this?"

We were still in the foyer, and there was nowhere to sit but the floor. So that's where we plopped down, his knee brushing mine and my hair a cyclone between us. The metaphorical dust had settled, we were best friends again. I suppose.

"Nothing," I murmured. "He hasn't got anything to do with me. Except everything."

"I don't speak girl," Jeremy declared, exasperated but trying to be patient. Our previous spat still hung over us like a wart, refusing to disappear. "So either spit it out or forget about me understanding this shit."

I took a deep breath and tried to exhale everything I was feeling, like vomiting. Purging. Strangely, I found that I couldn't. I felt like a much different person than I'd been when I woke up that morning. If you'd have asked me, I would have said that I didn't believe people could change, but the evidence was glaringly obvious inside of me. My heart felt as cold and empty as a stone, weighing down my chest.

I gave explaining my best shot. "He's my older brother," I squeaked, voice strangled by unwanted emotion. "I'm exactly eleven months and twenty-five days younger. Which apparently makes the biggest difference in the world."

Age felt like a chasm. I wasn't strong enough, or important enough, or big enough to cross it.

"What do you mean?" Jeremy prodded. "I'm older than you. You've never complained about th-"

"It's school," I whispered. Absently, I began twirling my hair around my index finger. Winding it up and letting it spring back into place. "His school. I, uh… applied, but I'm too young. I can't get out of here until next year."

When I looked up, I expected to see some sort of sympathy from Jeremy. But… this time _he_ looked like someone had punched him in the face. His wounded eyes hooked onto mine.

I fell deep into the many things that I never had wanted to feel. I was caked inside my own confusion. Jeremy's lips were letting truths slide out from between them, and these stung me.

"You say that all the time," he croaked, his gloom poorly disguised by a hair flick. "You talk about getting out of here. What's so bad about here, Kat? I'm here. All your other friends are here. You grew up in this town. For the life of me, I can't understand why you want out."

Not a curse word to be found. Embarrassed, I realized Jeremy was saying what he felt. I blushed, bizarrely. Truth was becoming a little foreign.

I refused to cry, but that didn't stop the tears from collecting in my eyes. "He never writes me," I choked out brazenly. "He's my brother, and he doesn't ever write me. I—" Here, Jeremy may tell you that the tears collapsed onto my face, but I will maintain that they didn't. "—don't… know why. What the hell could be more important than me?"

I know that sounds egotistical, ignorant, self-centered, etc. That's because it was. Just remember that no one had exactly explained to me the happenings of the Wizarding world. The extent of my knowledge stood at:

a) Magic is real. Woo hoo.  
b) Harry was has superpowers.  
c) Kata does not.

Solitary, I watched Jeremy's face.

"People change," he acknowledged with surprising defensiveness. "Circumstances, too. Look at us, Kata. We're sitting in your damn foyer, you're effing crying, and I'm spewing nonsense and shit trying to make you stop. How did we get here? I don't have a bloody clue. But ever since you came back in August—with no explanation as to where you were—you've been moody and insane and caught up in this whole 'life sucks' parade. And now there's the screaming and the crying and the Twenty Things, and… someone's got to tell you. I didn't want it to be me. But that little notebook you carry around, those pieces of paper with the words that the shitty drawings? You're not in there."

I stuck my head in my hands and lost track of which pieces of my body were where. "Would someone care to tell me who I am, then?" I spat, bitter and shaking and not in a rhetorical fashion. Someone—be it Jeremy or Harry or Mr. Mendota—needed to let me know.

"You're… you, I guess," Jeremy attempted. Key word: attempt. Good effort, though.

"I'm nobody."

"Says who?"

"Everybody. Jilly. Verno. Hagrid."

"Is that code?"

"Only if you want it to be."

Irony wiggled under my skin as Jeremy started to laugh. I know, I know. I'm just so _funny_. "Do you plan that kind of shit ahead of time, or does it just pop out?"

I shrugged. "I'm naturally sarcastic."

"You're a bloody piece of work," he declared.

"My parents are dead."

Moments collected. Moments fell. The Earth rolled its way through another cycle, and the pure tonight-ness of the moment came upon me. Time, it seemed, was inescapable. Through the ringing in my ears, I could almost hear the sand as it whispered through the hourglass. I wanted to scream. Silence dewed on the back of my neck.

"…"

"…"

"I'm going to leave now," Jeremy announced, after we'd both reassembled ourselves. I think I'd stuck one of my arms on the wrong way though, because it felt too heavy, like there was too much sadness inside.

"I think that's a very good idea," I said to my knees. The light bulb in the foyer illuminated us. _Home is where one hangs one's hat_, I recited internally, remembering reading that somewhere. Jeremy and I—among the coat closet and the shoe bench and the umbrella stand—were in the very essence of home. And I could not have felt more out of place.

The door shuffled shut behind him.

Before then, I hadn't believe that a person could cry herself to sleep. When I cried, I was usually so preoccupied with it that my mind could never settle down enough to sleep. But it isn't about settling down. When you feel so dead inside that your body is only lolling out of one unconsciousness and into the next, that's when it happens. When you're so hopeless and wrecked that there is nothing left to think about pain… you sleep. When you would rather die, you mind substitutes the next best thing. Endlessly, I slept.

The world slept with me.

For the next few days, I was decidedly uninteresting. But, would you like to know who _was_ interesting? Mr. Mendota. As I've tried to convey, he was an extraordinary sort of man. There is a dense, surviving kind of humanity to him. He parted his hair on the right side, ironed his pants, and smelled of drug store soap.

Loneliness was written all over him, even if I didn't care enough to see it.

He had a small house in the outskirts of town. The best that a teacher's salary could rent. In his den, he had a desk, where he sat to grade his student's papers and pound away at the novel he'd been trying to write since he was twelve. On this desk, there were several desk-ish items. Pens, memo pads, chewing gum, newspaper clippings. However, there was also a computer, where he typed the aforementioned dead-end novel. Taped to the upped-left corner of the computer monitor, there was a photograph roughly the size of a playing card.

It did not move. But it shivered with its own meaning.

A girl of about seventeen sat on the lip of an outdoor fountain, wearing tight gray jeans and a man's red sweater. This red clashed gloriously with her hair, which was a carefree auburn. There was a smudge of mascara above her left eye, and a peppering of freckles on her cheeks. Her smile made the sun look like a flickering forty-watt bulb. This girl's name had been Kailey. A car accident, five years previously, had ripped her from the world. The edges of where she had been were still sharp, and they dug into Robert Mendota's skin every single time he looked at her photograph.

Having a sister or brother is universal. There is a kind of easy, enduring love that comes with it. A company of blood and of unfaltering understanding. I tried very, very hard not to miss Harry that year, but I didn't try nearly as hard as Mr. Mendota did.

We were in a remarkably similar position. A world was between my brother and I, and a lifetime was between Kailey and hers.

Mr. Mendota had promised himself that he wouldn't see her in me. All the teachers had been talking of Harry Potter's mysterious disappearance and 'scholarship'— Harry was far beyond me in academics, but quite average—and he had immediately remembered that Harry had a sister. A sister with red hair and a name that started with 'K' and an older brother that she was now separated from.

He taught me indifferently, at first. Maths and science and English. I was another face in a classroom in a school in a world choked up with sisters and brothers. But soon he noticed the way I played with my hair, and became fascinated with why I couldn't be bothered to pay attention, and wondered at the things going on behind my glassy eyes as I stared disinterestedly out the window. Innocent curiosity boxed him in.

I thought I was unreachable. But I was alive. I suppose when you lose someone, you'll grapple at any opportunity to feel what it was like to be with them just one more time. Me… I was in denial. But Mr. Mendota had begun bartering with the world.

He taught me chess, and forced me to read about Wonderland, and hoped that I could find my Twenty Things. No, he wasn't delusional. I wasn't Kailey, and that was clear to him. But I'd become his newest mystery, and he wanted to solve it. He waited for the gorgeous comprehension to enter him.

We were so alike it stabbed him.

He didn't know very much about me, though. And I, of course, didn't know that story way back then. All I could see was the result.

But how do you see something you think you saw, when you know you didn't really see it?

Saturday and Sunday were spent in much the same way. I flitted between sleep and ill-fitting awareness. My dreams stormed my mind, and shocked me into reality, but reality numbed me to the point where sleep came automatically. In addition to being Katatonic (Katatonic! What a katastrophe. What had katapulted me into this state? What was the katalyst?), I had also gotten sick from lying around in my snow clothes for hours. I sneezed so much that my throat felt like someone had stabbed it with a rusty railroad spike. I sweated and then shivered and then sneezed again. Just generally miserable.

The Dursleys came back late Sunday afternoon, and did nothing to acknowledge me. I kept my door locked and—to help pass the time—imagined what I was going to do to everyone when they finally got around to giving me a wand.

Here is what else I thought about:

Twenty Things That Make The World Go 'Round. An assignment, a ceremony, and a quest. What means something to you? What can't you live without? Who are you, and why? How did you become yourself? Make a list. Write a letter. Gather a box of things, or paint Styrofoam numbers, or just come into your own using the method of your choice. You have until December 19th. Now, away with you, on a quest to find meaning! I hereby sic you on the unsuspecting world!

What kind of hopeless case was I? Did nothing matter? I'd managed to make a list, at least, of twenty items. I planned to turn it in, but now… it wasn't even worth the passing grade. Somewhere along the way, I'd stopped caring about the schoolwork aspect of the project, and started challenging myself to just become. I wanted to find the key to all my problems, through a project that I had been doomed to fail from the start.

Question: When did I decide that I didn't know who I was?

Answer: When they told me I should be looking.

The questions festered like disease in my mind, and I rotted from the inside out. Loneliness was a shell, and I crawled inside myself, not sure that I ever wanted to come out.

I watched the clock and dozed off and on.

After a long bout of nightmare-packed sleep, I awoke to a clock that read _8:21. _Morning. Clearing my raspy throat, I sat up and gripped the window with my eyes, wondering how it could still be dark. Yes, it was winter, but the sun had usually risen by this time. School would be starting in about half an hour… Was it worth it?

Barely bothering myself with pondering this, I creaked to my feet, my bones sliding and squeaking. Indifferently, I yanked back the curtains and—

Died.

Or maybe just blacked out for a moment. Not only had the snow been driven into dense, tenacious piles on the sides of the road, but it was illuminated by streetlamps. The amber circles of light from these also tossed parked cars, in safe driveways, into vision. Verno's SUV-of-the-week was standing guard in the driveway. And he never, ever left the house after eight, unless it was Dudley's birthday.

Which I was fairly certain it wasn't. Unless they'd started celebrating it twice a year. Let's not rule out that possibility.

It hadn't just slept through a weekend: I'd slept through a day in school. The last day before winter break. The day that the Twenty Things were due.

I'd slept it off. How had I not felt it?

Identity teased me, hovering just out of reach. Abruptly and completely, it didn't much matter whether or not I knew what my Twenty effing Things were. I'd given it my best shot, and gone down fighting, and the room closed in around me as I was drenched with renewed purpose. In the distance, in Town Square, the clock sang out the half hour, and time sliced me open.

It was Christmastime. School was over for the term, I was more alone than I cared to be, and I had a completed assignment snoozing in my backpack. What do you think I did? I plunged my feet into my sneakers and my body out of the smallest bedroom. I—with a chessman in my pocket and a letter still gripping the tiles of the bathroom floor—began to fight.

It was a fight I'd been fighting since a scarlet engine had evaporated into the horizon, leaving me behind: I'll-Show-Them-All.

Still coughing and wheezing and sneezing from my run-in with the snow, I tramped downstairs in a hodgepodge of clothes. Everything felt very far off, as if I were at the bottom of a deep well. My breath came in great, frenzied slabs, and my vision kicked about. The same ratty cardigan I'd worn the night Jeremy had visited was flung over my shoulders, my jeans were ancient and holey.

I didn't even want to _know_ what my hair looked like. I imagined that by now it had gone from mildly unmanageable to murderously feral, and that was not something anyone wants to see. Small children have been known to get lost in my hair.

"And just where are _you_ going?" Verno demanded almost semi-cordially from the sitting room. This was one of the three or four phrases he traditionally directed at me. The others held expletives.

My insanity gushed onto my face in answer. He didn't say anything else.

I couldn't quite hear myself tumble through the house and out the door. Phantom hands snagged my school bag on the way out. Routine. The ice-caked sidewalk pounded at my feet as I sputtered and coughed to the garage, digging my stone cold bike out from under a tarp.

The night was cracked open wide, the streetlights flinging their beams down my throat and the stars bobbing indifferently in the sky. They skirted along the edges of the moon, watching me as I pedaled and coughed and sneezed. My chest metaphorically bled. My heart barely beat, lazily stirring my blood around. All I could feel was the dense sensation that air had replaced my legs and my arms were now listless, skin-colored noodles. The pieces of me were there, certainly. They just weren't doing a very good job of behaving as a whole.

I didn't even know what I wanted to feel. All I had was a backpack slung over my bones.

It was December 19th, 1991. I don't suppose I'll ever forget that night, though sometimes I wish I would. As the solemn tolling of the clock crawled off into the night, silence collected around me. My legs strained as I pedaled for all I was worth (Which was approximately three letters, a pawn, and a potato-noodle casserole.).

I rode through a town, and saw it. The houses clustered on the edges of roads, blinking their windows shut for the night. Our Lady of the People, on Dashwood Place, was half shrunk into the shadows, so dark I wasn't sure if it was there. Slowly, the houses turned into businesses and office buildings. Quick Mart glowed, its proud 'Open 24 Hours' sign parked in the window. Marc sat at an empty register, propping her feet up on a conveyor belt and thumbing through a tabloid. Flinker's had closed down for the night, but the shape of it still resided across the street from the bank where Jilly's mum worked as a teller/love goddess. Halfman Park sat off to the side of Town Square, hovering ominously. I got the odd, eternal feeling that I was being watched.

And, of course, the clock. Always the clock.

The fact of it was, this: a thousand people had lived and worked and been in this town. Maybe some of them had died here. I was just a tick mark on the history of Little Whinging. I wouldn't be the last person to pedal insanely through deserted streets that seemed to crowded even without the presence of other human souls.

Stonewall Primary rested at the barest edge of town, which was still only about five blocks from where I lived. By the time I arrived there, cold sweat was crowding my skin and a stitch was pressed into my side. My backpack bit into my shoulders. I can stop with the descriptions, right? You get it. I was a right bloody mess.

Cars were jumbled into every available space—I'd missed school, but I hadn't missed the dreaded Winter Exhibition. Just a bunch of parents being proud of their kids.

I now feel the need to take the time to outline a very important detail: I didn't exactly miss my parents. I wasn't especially sad that they were dead, as I've mentioned. A bit ticked off, certainly. But I was hardly the type to cry over something that had just been a constant in my life for ten years. I missed the_ idea_ of parents. In essence, I was a little girl who wanted to feel like someone cared.

Another very important detail: I was insanely jealous of Harry. When we'd gone to Diagon Alley—when I still thought I was getting to go to school with him—almost every single person we met told him that he looked like James. I wanted someone to look at me and say, "You look quite a bit like your father, too, Kata. Your mother as well."

You know what else would have been amazing? If (literally) every wizard or witch we meant hadn't said, "A sister? Harry Potter has a sister? Who knew!"

Yeah. That would have been sort of neat.

Another description: The cold parted around my body as I pressed my way up the steps and to the mouth of the door. A ribbon of wind played with my hair as I once again struggled with a doorknob. I got it open and skimmed inside, the peeling rubber bottoms of my sneakers complaining against the newly-waxed linoleum.

The sound slapped the halls, which were deserted and a bit forlorn. The finger-paintings and lockers ran along the walls.

Fear—the cold, jittery kind—fell down my throat, but something made me keep walking. I sensed, oddly, that if I didn't walk this road now, I'd just be postponing it for later. People have defining moments when they're young, particularly when they're searching for them. And one of my biggest moments, when I look back, is wandering slowly down the empty, desolate halls of a school.

I sort of got the impression that fear was just as scared as I was.

The smell of spotlights leaked out from under the doors of the auditorium as I stood outside. Numbly, I yanked hard on the handle and slid in without letting the door slam behind me. Every single human being faced the front.

I couldn't have timed it better. Winnie was belting her lines, while Robin prepared to melt. Liam, Brady, and Alec slouched, Jilly held her spear with frightening intensity, and Sherrie hid behind the curtain.

I was supposed to close that curtain. Vaguely, I remembered this, but it didn't do anything.

Or… perhaps it did.

When I sat down to tell this, I knew there were going to be parts I'd want to gloss over. That moment in my fifth year, for instance, with Adam Null. You guys won't be hearing all of that. Or the moment in the graveyard where it will all begin to unravel. Those are times when I won't go into as much detail as maybe some of you would like—by choice, though. Right now, when I skip over things, it's because I honestly don't remember. I suppose I ran.

I'll bet I kept going even when I heard the door roar shut behind me. My sneakers probably pounded the floor. I stormed the school. If you were there, you wouldn't have thought of me as Harry Potter's little sister. I was the Kata, for whom people clapped and hallways parted. I feel like you could have known me if you'd watched me run. Just for a few seconds. Maybe.

It was like swallowing that peanut. Standing in the crevice between the theater and the hallways, I felt my heart cough to a stop. It didn't start again until I found myself spread across the floor in front of a door that read: _201: Mendota 6. _

I heard him rumble down the hallway. He was laughing. The sounds of it raided the walls. I picked at a scrap of resilient nail polish on my thumb and waited patiently. Sherrie Parker and a careworn-looking woman with a professional suit and well-worn shoes followed him. She apologized frequently.

"I'm so sorry," she announced for the billionth time.

"It's fine," my teacher assured her. "I've got the keys. We'll find her coat."

"I'm sorry. Sherrie can be so forgetful."

Forgetful Sherrie didn't object to this description. She twiddled a piece of hair with her first two fingers and appeared deeply interested in the pattern of the ceiling tiles. She saw me before the two adults did, and a brief kinship extended between us.

"Mr. Mendota," she quipped matter-of-factly. Her voice was kind of high and breathy. Out-of-sorts, like it was a big deal for her to form coherent sentences. "Kata Potter is on the floor."

And the kinship evaporated. I missed it already.

Mr. Mendota, Sherrie, and the woman that I assumed was Sherrie's mum all gazed at me. I swallowed and dragged myself into a standing position. My expression was businesslike, and my body felt hollow. There wasn't much I had to say, but there were still things that needed to come out. They gathered in the back of my throat, frothing at my lips. I shook. Sherrie raised an eyebrow, and Mr. Mendota nearly dropped his keys.

"Kata!" he cried. "What are you doing here? Are you feeling better? Are you all ri—Kata, breathe!"

I obeyed, grudgingly, taking in the air through my nose. See, if I opened my mouth, the words would have come out in the wrong order. They'd mean the wrong things. As I bent over, unzipped my bag, and extracted one green notebook, I kept my lips dutifully stitched together.

"Hey, Mr. Mendota," I greeted, my voice brittle. "I just figured I'd stop by and tell you."

He asked the obligatory follow-up question, while Sherrie's mum looked at me in the way that most people's mums look at me. I call it ShockPityDisgust. An unusual combination.

"Tell me what?" he demanded in his teacher voice. I was impervious to the command behind it, though. I was strung out on a mysterious, adrenaline-like substance. It broke over my blood and gripped my veins like reigns. "Kata, are you here alone? It's really late. Are you sure you're okay?"

"No," I said clippingly. The truth felt… _good_. "I'm not okay. But whatever. I'm here to tell you that… I give up. There are no Twenty Things for me. You told me that the secret to winning at chess was sacrificing all that you can. Mr. Mendota, I'm standing here and telling you that I have absolutely nothing left to sacrifice. Some people aren't attached to anything. They don't have things that make their worlds go 'round. I'm just one of those people. I don't even know what kind of person I'm supposed to be. But things change too much for me to have Twenty Things."

My fingers released that notebook, and it kissed the floor. He stared at me openly.

I knew how to make a speech, I suppose. None of them said a word. Sherrie went back to staring at the ceiling, her wide hazel eyes distant and dreamy. Mrs. Parker fiddled uncomfortably with her jacket sleeve, and Mr. Mendota did something that I didn't expect. (What else is new?)

His eyes whispered shut. His face fell slack, slipping out of its composure and calm. As he spoke, his lips barely touched the words. Still, they came. "This is how the world ends. This is how the world ends. This is how the world ends. Not with bang, but a whimper."

I didn't realize that I had run away again until I found myself in Halfman Park, sitting on a bridge hovering above a small, crusty pond. My feet dangled over the edge, reaching for the surface. The stars battled to be seen in the bottomless, watery sky. Random clusters of snow freckled the open lots where people played cricket and Frisbee in the summer. I closed my eyes and breathed shallowly.

There's a piece of good news here: I've almost reached my worst. Things will spiral a bit more downward, but they'll eventually rise. I don't really have the patience to tell a sad story. This one is sad, yes… but I wasn't. Not when I sat there, feeling numb and hollow and thoroughly enjoying the way the sky looked against my skin.

I wasn't entirely sure what I wanted, but I dearly hoped I got it someday


	9. Chapter 9

Nine: Memoirs of The Girl Who Technically Lived

**Chapter Notes:**In this chapter, you see a lot of canon scenes. The dialogue is slightly changed, mostly so I won't be accused of plagiarizing. This can also be attributed to Kat's personality, though; I don't think she'd care to keep track of what was said by whom and at what time.

Argentina actually did win the World Cup in 1990—the soccer World Cup, that is. Not Quidditch. I do not own the following things mentioned in this chapter: Harry Potter (duh), John Clare's "I Am", Madonna, Emily or Charlotte Brontë, "Carry On My Wayward Son", or—because I forgot to reference it last chapter—T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Man". I do, however, own Mr. Mendota, Jeremy Flinker, Kata Potter, and Zane Liestman. As always, reviews and criticism are welcome. I respond to all. Enjoy!

center~*~*~*~/center

A six-sentence summary of my Christmas:

Snow pleated the ground, filling in the cracks in the sidewalk. I took a long walk around Little Whinging, admiring the larger-than-life evergreen that had been erected in Town Square. Everything smelled like holly and home. I wondered about Christmas at Hogwarts, and about who could possibly be responsible for the random purple sweater that had shown up in my room that morning.

Too late to do anything about it, I realized I'd sent Hedwig away without a reply.

With cold fingers, I touched the other thing Harry's letter had contained: a small sterling silver pendent in the shape of a 'K', strung thoughtfully on a thin chain.

center~*~*~*~/center

Jeremy and I were going to get married in June, when he was twenty-one and I was twenty. He wanted to go for twenty and nineteen, but I'd told him flat out that I wasn't going to become a 'Mrs.' while my age still had a 'teen' tacked onto the end. We'd stick with the traditional vows, because I just didn't have the patience or eloquence to write my own. Instead of roses, I would have sunflowers in my bouquet. Jeremy would wear a tux—a real one, like in movies, with a triangular-folded handkerchief in the breast pocket and shoes so spit-shined he'd be able to see himself—and I wanted a dress dripping with diamonds and lace. I wasn't interested in a veil; I figured it would get in the way. I told him to forget about kids, and he fought me tooth-and-nail when I informed him that I intended to keep my own name. The compromise: one kid, and I got to stay Potter. Harry conceded to walking me down the aisle, but I don't think he took the whole plan very seriously.

This all was decided when Jeremy and I were very young, under that tree in the woods behind the school. The main idea behind it was that neither of us had any interest in marrying, so we might as well just marry each other to get it over it. We dubbed it a 'partnership of convenience' (a phrase we'd read in a book somewhere), and shook on it. He suggested a kiss to seal the deal, but I wasn't having it. I told him he could kiss me when the preacher said so, and not before then.

As I grew up, I think Jeremy and I realized how ridiculous an idea it all was. Still, we'd both make vague references to Sometime in the Future, when we'd take each other in sickness and in health, till death did we depart.

My marriage was the last thing on my mind when the letters started coming. It didn't once enter my brain as Verno drove aimlessly around the country, or when we stayed at a motel empty except for vermin and chipping paint. And as we rowed haphazardly across an icy stretch of water in a steady deluge of rain, I was simply thinking, i_Cold. Cold. I hate all of you. Cold_/i_. _ Nothing about vows or veils.

But when Hagrid said the magic words (Get it? i_Magic_/i words? Humph. Well, i_I_/ithink I'm funny.), I had three thoughts. This is how it went.

Hagrid: "Yer a wizard, Harry."

Kata's first thought: i_Did he just say lizard?_/i

Kata's second thought: i_Oh, wizard. That makes more sense. NOT._/i

Kata's third thought: i_If Harry's a wizard, I'm a wizard. And if I'm a wizard, how am I going to marry Jeremy?_/i

Unbelievable, I know. After steady years of knowing it was preposterous to actually think I would marry Jeremy, a plan I had made when I was four or five was the first (well, third) thing that jumped into my head after a half-giant gave me the best and worst news of my life.

I guess it should have been a warning. Even when I asked Hagrid and he told me that Muggles married wizards all the time, I should have sensed it. There was an uncertain price I'd need to pay for entry into this brave new world that was blossoming before my eyes.

I would have to give up more than I wedding I didn't even want. I'd be waving a wand with hands that would have to learn how to let go.

…Would you like to hear about it?

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"Off the top of my head" I announced. "I can literally think of a thousand things I'd rather be doing than sitting here and freezing to death."

Harry nodded silently, agreeing with me. Verno was busy trying to convince wet chip bags to burst into flame. Aunt P watched this process hopefully, and Dudley whined.

Perhaps I was just bored. But I was determined to get one of them (them being the Durselys) to say something rude or degrading to me. This just wasn't natural. Verno's eyes were pointing in different directions, and he grinning like he'd won the lottery. Aunt P's mouth was stitched shut, and she kneaded her hands restlessly. Dudley—having run out of things to whine about approximately a half hour ago—was now simply making a series of high-pitched grunting noises, trying to get his mother's attention. These were not the Dursleys I knew.

"So, let me get this straight," I tried again. "You brought matches… and no food?"

"I brought food," Verno smiled cheerfully, indicating the chip bags.

Then, he/i smiled. iI think I had a tiny aneurysm.

Harry was staring off into space, way past caring what I said or did to upset Verno. But he shot me a warning look as I geared up for third attempt. I could only think of one thing the Dursleys hated more than me.

"Which came first, the chicken or the egg? What's Madonna's real name? Where do babies come from?"

Aunt P stopped wrestling with her own grip and looked at me quizzically. Verno hummed softly as match after match failed and was deposited into the fireplace alongside the chip bags. Tiny fires occasionally broke out, but the bags simply spouted blue smoke and curled up at the edges.

"What are you doing?" Harry said under his breath. I smiled coldly.

"Asking questions," I said evenly. I'd hoped to make him smile, but all he did was look worried.

Hurt at the way my brother was behaving, and thoroughly annoyed with my unresponsive aunt and uncle, I finally shrieked, "Dudley, you're fat!"

The response was a dark look from Aunt P and an unintelligible whine from DinkleDork. Or whatever they were calling him these days.

Finally, Verno gave up on the fire and began to take stock of the sleeping arrangements. There was a large, lumpy mattress set upon a groaning slab of box springs in the other room, but one would be lying to call it a bed. In addition, there was a fragile-looking couch composed of moldy cushions. And then there was the floor.

They say sleeping on the floor is good for your back. I intend to have a fantastic back one day, or I'm demanding my money back.

"You okay?" Harry said as Dudley snored on the couch and we lay sprawled over the floor. He let me hog the one blanket that'd been tossed our way, even though I could feel him shivering. For once, though, I decided to take advantage of the ridiculous selflessness that was Harry; I estimated that, out of the two of us, I'd be most likely to freeze to death.

"Mm-hmm," I said sleepily. "Why?"

"The storm…"

I opened one bleary eye and defensively said, "I got over that a gazillion years ago."

He nodded indulgently. "Last week?"

Yeah. On the fourteenth of never, I thought peevishly. "I'm not five, Harry."

He merely bobbed his head knowingly. He understood me too well; it was irritating. Besides, this was more than just a little water. There was thunder and lighting and screaming winds and a flapping sea. It was perfectly natural to be scared of a storm like this.

I was drifting off, and had almost forgotten about the storm and the cold and the annoying older brother when he spoke again. "Do you think they'll remember?"

"I'm trying to sleep here, bro. Who's they?"

"Them." He jerked his head toward the door to the tiny room with where Aunt P and Verno slept. "About my birthday."

I sighed and rolled over to face him. "Considering we're sleeping on the floor of a shack miles from home in the middle of Freaking Nowhere, and bearing in mind that they hate us both on principle, I'd say the chances are slim to none." He blinked, smiling ironically at my logic. "I will, though."

He groaned. "You're not going to sing again, are you?"

"Try and stop me."

"C'mon," he said , probably remembering the time every dog in the neighborhood started howling uncontrollably when I broke into a chorus of "Carry On My Wayward Son." "Don't I get a wish or something?"

"Wish for a pony," I said. Giving up on sleep, I opened my eyes and looked around. Dudley was out like a light, his ham-like wrist dangling over the side of the grimy sofa. i11:55/i, his watch read.

Suddenly, Harry went stiff and wrenched partially upright, propped up on his elbows. "Did you hear that?"

I shook my head. "All I hear is the sound of me starving to death. I'm allergic to the stuff they make those chips with. And you wouldn't let me eat banana peels."

"Shh," he said , paying no attention to my food rant. "It sounds like something's outside…"

"It's called wind," I said through a yawn. "Would you mind if I roasted and ate Dudley?"

Once again, I got no reply. He lay back down, one ear cocked warily. 11:56.

I was internally debating what Dudley would taste like when Harry twitched and looked around again. "Kata…"

"It's the storm!" I said impatiently. "Go back to wishing for that pony. A pink one. With sparkles."

He laughed, but it was forced and uneasy. Barely audible over the moaning of the waves against rocks. The bullet sound of lightning split the sky, and I buried my face in the crook of my arm, trembling.

"You got over it?"

"Shut up!"

"It's not a big deal, Kat."

"Happy birthday to yoooooou!" I belted in punishment, hoping the Dursleys would wake up at the sound of my nails-on-a-chalkboard voice. That would be quite the celebration.

Harry covered his ears, protecting them from permanent damage.

"Happy Birthday tooooooo yooooooou!"

"You'll wake everyone up!" he hissed as I continued my whale imitation/singing.

"Happy Birthday, dear Harryyyyyy! Happy Birrrthdayyy toooo yoooou!"

I trilled off into a note that would make opera singers ashamed of their genre.

Can I pause for a second? I just want to describe it. The storm battered the little cabin, spraying it with wind and dousing its sides in foam-capped waves. The cold was bone-deep and painful, and I was hungry enough to consider cannibalism. My brother and I laughed at my appalling lack of talent as thunder slashed at the clouds. There was a watch, and it read,i 11:59./i

The last minute before life as I knew it came to a permanent close. I spent it in laughter.

When the door was broken down, I was still smiling.

center_~*~*~*~_/center

My account of what happened when Hagrid came in isn't entirely different than Harry's. A bit more sarcastic, certainly. Longer, wordier. Essentially, though… it's the same as what you know.

But that's the point of not writing it out: to let you know that some things will be the same. Sometimes, Harry and I are in the same place doing the same thing with the same intent. We iare/i related, after all. Just like the color of our eyes, our unpredictable tempers, and a curious form of stupidity that some people mistake for bravery, we share experiences.

But because this story is about me, I'll give you one image. One box of words to help you assemble the climax of my life.

A girl. On the shorter side. With ornery hair and a shaggy wall of bangs her aunt cut by roping Scotch tape around her forehead and lopping off what hung over the edge. She'd been left on somebody's doorstep and life was dead-end; that's what she knew about herself. Just imagine the blaze of possibilities that lit up her face when the truth was unmasked. Think about how she must have felt, to know that she—who was decidedly ordinary—had the kind of roaring potential to someday be extraordinary.

There was pride, handfuls of it. Prospect, another foreign word.

This girl, she learned so much about herself in such a short period of time. Magic, Hogwarts, her parents, a Dark wizard with a name that reminded her of mold…

And this girl, who had always thought she didn't have a middle name, got half a dozen of them thrown at her. The giant gazed at her skeptically as he recited these, like he expected her to react in a certain way.

"Katarine Natasha Elisabeth Rose Lillian Alice Mintaka Potter."

iOh, yes/i, the girl thought. iThat's very good./i

The night was tinted. That's the best way I can describe it. Tinted and too big to fit within the small hours it was allotted.

center~*~*~*~/center

The Leaky Cauldron was sewn haphazardly onto the corner of a bust London street. It wasn't the ideal spot for a business; the passerby seemed to collectively walk by it without even glancing up from their individual pursuits. Hagird led Harry and I toward it like it was the most important building in the world.

"It's a right famous place," Hagrid said. Doubtful, I glanced at Harry, who shrugged.

The inside of the Leaky Cauldron was no more promising. The tables had an ancient, greasy look to them—as did the people sitting at them. A dusty barman stood behind a counter, wiping a frosted glass with a stained rag and talking with a man wearing a top hat. The air smelled of sherry and resin.

The bartender and the top-hatted man smiled and waved at Hagrid. I wondered offhandedly where I could buy a top hat like that. "Hagrid," the bartender said. "Your usual, I presume?"

"Sorry, Tom," Hagird said gruffly, clapping Harry on the shoulder. I noticed a few old ladies in the corner pointing at Harry and whispering. One nodded eagerly, puffing on a pipe. "Not today. I'm on official Hogwarts business."

Tom dropped the dish rag. "Well, bless my soul," he breathed, his eyes going wide and his hands shaking. A cross between surprise, fear, and reverence was making its way across his face. "Harry Potter."

Immediately, the Leaky Cauldron was in uproar. Tom the bartender was the first to reach Harry. With tears clouding his squinty eyes, he pumped my brother's hand. "Welcome back," he said, wheezing slightly. "Welcome back, Mr. Potter…"

A tidal wave of people followed. Quite a few of them stepped on my feet or shoved me aside in a mad dash to meet Harry. There was quite a lot of hand-shaking and introductions.

"—so proud, Mr. Potter, just so proud—"

"—always wanted to meet you…can't believe it—"

"—Diggle's the name, my boy, Dedalus Diggle—"

I expected the swarm of people to eventually thing, but it did not— some kept coming back to shake Harry's hand again. Tom the bartender was all of a flutter, excited to have a icelebrity/i in his undeserving pub. Slightly angered, I crossed my arms and stared at the floor. I didn't understand.

A pale man with dark blue robes and a curious turban came forward, wringing his hands. One of his eyes twitched off and on, making his whole face contort and smooth out in little spasms.

"Well, hello, Professor Quirrell!" Hagrid said. "Harry, this is Professor Quirrell. He'll be your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at school."

"Harry P-P-P-Potter," Quirrell said in greeting, inclining his head nervously. "S-so p-p-pleased t-t-to finally m-meet you."

"Defense Against the Dark Arts?" I repeated, confused. "What sort of magic is that?"

Quirrell shook his head as if he'd rather not elaborate. His eyes fell on me for just a moment, and something behind them twitched—not the eyes themselves. Quirrell was staring at me as if he knew exactly who I was, and as if I quite terrified him. But then he was gone, and a woman who introduced herself as Doris Crockford was shaking Harry's hand for the umpteenth time.

It took an ungodly amount of time to disentangle Harry from his mass of admirers. While Hagrid worked at this, Tom the bartender finally asked my name.

"I'm Kata, Kata Potter," I said proudly, hoping for some recognition.

Tom glanced at Harry, and then back to me. "You're not… irelated/i to Mr. Potter, now?"

I bit my lip. "I'm his sister."

This seemed to shock Tom a fair amount. He kept glancing my way, as if there was some sort of physical test he could use to determine whether I was a Potter. I watched Harry be met and greeted by a dozen eager fans, and wondered what the hell was going on.

"Must be going, now," Hagrid finally called. "Lots ter do—c'mon, you two."

We slipped through the back door of the Leaky Cauldron and I found myself in a dirty alleyway. A few broken bottles littered the ground, and patches of weeds sprung up through the cracks in the pavement. "iWhat/i," I said, "was that all about?"

Hagrid grinned. "Told yeh. Yer famous, Harry."

"Yes," I said. "You mentioned that. What you failed to mention were the mobs of fans and the handshaking and the Doris Crockfords and the whatever that was!"

Hagrid chuckled. My head was spinning. "And why didn't any of them know me?" I demanded. "He's the Boy Who Lived, right? Doesn't that make me… I dunno, the Girl Who Lived?"

Hagird and Harry both seemed uncomfortable, as if they knew something I didn't. "Well," Hagrid said, "I s'pose yeh itechnically/i lived. But it's complicated. Now, let's see… two from the left, three up… right. Yeh may want ter stand back."

Hagrid extracted his pink umbrella from a deep pocket in his overcoat and began tapping what seemed to be a random sequence of bricks on the alley wall. But the bricks he touched began to tremble… they pulsated, wiggling in place. A great rumbling noise—something like gallons on water pouring thickly onto a bed of rocks— sounded through the alley as the bricks in front of me began to fold backwards onto each other, forming a massive archway that led out to a cluttered cobblestone street.

I whistled out lowly through me teeth, a trick Jeremy had taught me. Harry's jaw was hovering somewhere between the ground and its normal location. I took a step onto the street, barely able to think over the babble and commotion of the people and shops that stood before us. A chunk of sunlight replaced the shadow of the alley on my face.

"Welcome," Hagrid said. "This—this is Diagon Alley."

For the first time in my life, I was grateful for the what the mental quack the Dursleys had taken me to see mistook for ADHD—a short attention span that enabled me to look everywhere at once and not miss a single piece of Diagon Alley. Stores that sold things I'd never heard of or hadn't thought existed lined the streets. People in wizard robes or old-fashioned Muggle clothes wove in between each other. There seemed to be no uniform direction of motion. We passed an apothecary, where a woman stood shaking her head, complaining about the raising price of dragon liver—dragons?—and a department store called Monday's. The windows of the latter were filled with statuesque mannequins charmed to switch poses every few seconds and wave to the passerby. Two girls of about my age stood outside a lopsided looking bookstore, passing a bag of candy back and forth. Whenever one of them ate a piece, smoke would pore from her ears and she'd squeal. I had a huge, stupid grin on my face as my eyes sifted through the massive amount of things worth staring at.

A perpetual hum of magic filled the air. Things banged and pinged and spontaneously exploded. The buildings were very close together, and seemed to almost lean against each other for support. As well as being seemingly endless, the street was crooked and turned sharply in some places.

"Here it is," Hagrid said as we walked through the street, "Gringotts bank."

Gringotts towered over everything else in Diagon Alley. It was also a pure, marble white, which further contributed to making it stand out. Hagrid led the way up the steps, toward a huge, polished set of doors. Just before I stepped inside, I turned around and looked down at Diagon Alley from this new vantage point. It was so different from the flat, dull world of Privet Drive that I knew and had grown up in. After years of being told otherwise, I suddenly felt like I belonged somewhere. Like I was where I was supposed to be.

"I'm back," I said softly, standing up straight and moving forward, toward Gringotts and toward what would come.

center~*~*~*~/center

I stood against a wall—though, it didn't make much sense to call it a wall… the entire shop was made of shelves that were cluttered with long, flat boxes—my eyes half-closed from boredom. Mr. Ollivander bustled around the shop. He was a curious man; he seemed to inhabit his entire body, throwing himself this way and that with rapid, sharp movements.

Harry looked uncomfortable, waving wand after wand with nothing to show for it. "Wand number sixty-four," I said. "Not that anyone's counting."

I understood the wand was an important part of being a wizard… but, come on! I was waiting for my turn, and at this rate it didn't look like the moment was ever coming.

"No, no, no…" Ollivander said. "Here—try this… made of pine, that's rather unusual. Unicorn hair core. Nine and a half inches…"

Predictably, the wand did nothing. I sighed as quietly as I could. Hagrid had grown distracted, and was staring out the window with glazed eyes. I tried poking my fingers through the bars of Harry's owl's cage to pet her feathers, but the bird snapped at me and turned away. Hagrid had explained that the owl might not take to me easily because a) my voice is apparently very high-pitched, b) owls are loyal to their masters more than anyone else, and this owl would recognize Harry as her master, and c) snowy owls have some kind of issue with the color red.

"What about that one?" I said, indicating a strange wand sitting on a velvet cushion in the window. It wasn't made entirely the same as other wands; cords of glass were ingrained with the wood from the grip to the apex. Ollivander followed my eyes, but glanced away a mere second later with disdain.

"That wand will not favor Mr. Potter," he said dismissively, handing Harry another wand (number sixty-six).

Shocked by his swift disregard, I bit my lip and studied the glass wand and a bit further. It was sleek, if short. The wood was sand-colored and smooth. Under the examination of my gaze, the wand abruptly quivered and rolled over.

"Mr. Ollivander!" I shrieked in shock, losing my footing and collapsing back onto a wall of shelves. Boxes immediately toppled down over me like rain; their corners struck my face and arms painfully. A raucous clatter shivered down the walls of the small shop as wands broke free of their boxes and rattled around me. In the commotion, I stepped on a loose wand, went flailing forward, and somehow wound up flat on the ground, surrounded by supposedly magical twigs.

Someone shouted my name, but I couldn't tell who over the roar of sound in my ears. One large hand seized the back of my t-shirt and hauled my to me feet. Hagrid. I wobbled unsteadily, but stood my ground. Mr. Ollivander was already doing damage control, gathering up boxes and the wands that went inside them. Feeling guilty, I tried to help, but he only waved me away, muttering incoherently.

"Quite all right… really, quite all right… happens all the time…"

"That wand," I said. "It just…"

I glanced at Harry, and he was giving me The Kata Look.

I'll outline this look for all you fine spectators. Start with your standard worried expression. Add a pinch of shame, a glob of brotherly concern. Mix in something close to exasperation. Knit the eyebrows together; open the mouth ever so slightly. Depending on the situation, there may also be a bit of i_I can't take you anywhere_./i Stir together, add calamity and Kata. Bake at three-fifty, and there you have your Kata Look.

"I'm all right," I said. "Just in case anybody's interested."

"You've got a wand in your hair," Harry said, unsure of whether to smile. I reached up and searched through my curls, further humiliated. Locating the intruder, I plucked it out and weighed it in my palms. The wand was carved from darkish wood and had a scent I couldn't place, but felt like I knew. It was about twice the size of my forearm, and had a single knot on the side.

Impulsively, I held it out to Harry, flattening my hair with my other hand. "Try it. It has good wand vibes."

His arms cluttered with boxes, Ollivander chuckled. "Do I have a Seer in my shop?"

I glanced at Harry. "She's good with these things," he said. "She called the World Cup last year."

I nodded proudly. "Argentina."

Ollivander blinked his pale eyes and took the wand from my fingers before Harry could. His nimble hands folded over it knowingly, and his face lit up devilishly. "I wonder," he breathed. He glanced at Harry, then at me, and handed Harry the wand. "Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches. Supple."

I waited anxiously as Harry slashed wand number sixty-seven through the air. The uncomfortable look on his face evaporated, and a spray of red and gold light filled the room. I smiled widely, watching the display. Hagrid applauded, and even Mr. Ollivander seemed excited. He beamed. " Oh, finally! Bravo! Very good, very good. Well, well…"

Abandoning the reconstruction of his shelving system, Ollivander slid Harry's wand into a box and packaged it with brown paper. "Curious. How very curious… indeed…"

Now anticipating my turn to find a wand, I didn't particularly care what was so curious about wand number sixty-seven. My brother, however, apparently did. "Sorry," he asked. "i_What's_/icurious?"

Dragging his gaze away from the wand box, Ollivander raised his eyes and stared directly at Harry's lightning scar. It was as if Hagrid and I weren't in the room anymore. Suddenly, I was very conscious of my own forehead— I am unmarked.

"I've done this for more years than I care to say, Mr. Potter. And I remember all of it. Every wand I've ever sold, every customer I've ever dealt with. Some more than others. And, it just so happens, that this wand had a brother. The cores of these wands are identical. It's curious, you see, that this wand should choose you so completely when its brother—the wand with the twin feather at its core—was the wand that gave you that scar."

A brief chill slid across my skin. Harry swallowed audibly.

Nervously, I watched my brother extract some of the large gold coins from his pocket to pay for the holly and phoenix feather wand.

Something clicked into place in my mind. "Wait," I said. "What about me? What about i_my_/i wand?"

Eyes—pearly gray, beetle black, and emerald green—landed on me. They asked and answered questions. Confused, I took a step back. A rickety floorboard, slathered with age and dust, creaked. Slowly, I shook my head.

There had been one set of books, one cauldron, one telescope. I was so used to sharing everything I owned that I hadn't realized what this really meant.

I understood abruptly. It was disorienting.

"Kata," Harry started to say.

"No."

"Hold on a second—"

"No!" I shouted, and I bolted from the shop. The bell above the door screamed as I wrenched it open. Too quickly, I was thrust into the commotion of Diagon Alley. Busy shoppers, moving every which way, surrounded me. None of them paid attention to the scrawny redhead kid moving underfoot. Battling my way through the crowd, I stuttered over the patchy cobblestone roads. The neon colors of everything slapped a pulsing headache between my eyes. My eyes watered from the sensory overload. I ran and ran and ran.

My lungs didn't ask for air. Adrenaline kept the pain of my pounding heart and the stitch in my side to a minimum. I'd always been terrible with remembering how to get from one place to another, and didn't know which way to go to reach the Leaky Cauldron.

Instead, I settled for a more general direction: that way.

No longer interested with taking in everything around me, I ran until the shops and shoppers became a blur. I didn't even let myself be amazed at the size of the Alley. All I wanted to do was run until I was hopelessly lost.

Gasping, I rounded one last corner and reached a deserted dead end. A tall, impenetrable wall of orange brick stood before me. Hunched beneath it and the blazing sun, I felt two feet tall.

And completely out of place.

It was the first time I understood I had the capacity to hate my brother. As a general practice, I hated many people—Verno, Aunt P, Winnie Alderton. But Harry, though we fought like any other siblings, was someone I had always considered to be on my side.

My stomach felt rather hollow, and there was nothing to do but kick the brick wall.

"Ow!" I cried out as pain shot up my leg. Indignant, I gave the wall another solid kick for revenge. The sun scratched my skin as I did this again and again. This sunken section of the street was entirely isolated but for the sun and my exclamations of pain and frustration.

Ow. Ow, ow, ow.

"I'm not supposed to talk to lunatics," a voice said behind me. "But I'd really like to know why you're doing that."

I whirled around, heatedly angry. A boy with chin-length black hair, aristocratic features, and a confident grin slouched a few feet away from me. He wore all black, which made him look contrastingly pale. For someone who thought I was crazy, he looked completely at ease. In a way, I was strangely drawn to him. Something about the way his chin cocked gave me the impression he thought of the world as one big game and experiment. It reminded me of… me.

Chest heaving, I spat out an answer. "None of your business."

"You're right," the boy said. "It's not. I'm Zane, by the way. Zane Liestman."

"Kata."

Zane raised an eyebrow. "D'you have a last name, Crazy Kata?"

I bit my lip and debated for a moment. "No."

Zane nodded. "Right." He began to walk away.

As I caught my breath from my fit of wall-kicking, a few more words stumbled out over my lips. "I'm not crazy!"

"I know," Zane said as he slouched away. A swatch of sweat clung to my forehead.

"How?" I asked. "How do you know?"

His shrug was easy and incomplete. "Because," Zane Liestman said, "I am." And then he was gone.

Huffing, I placed my back against the wall, slid down to sit on the summer-baked ground, and threw my head into my hands.

It was the first time I hated Harry. It wouldn't be the last.

center~*~*~*~/center

Together, Harry and Hagrid explained most of it. Patches of words stuck in my mind like flies in marmalade.

"Hagrid told me this morning. At first," Harry said, "I said I wasn't going without you. I said I wasn't leaving you. But then he explained more of it, and… if you think about it… it's better this way."

No. No, it's not. I don't have to think about it to know that.

Hagrid gave it a shot: "Dumbledore's thought this through. He's a great man, Dumbledore, an' he knows what he's doin'. No witch or wizard younger 'an eleven has ever come to Hogwarts. It's how it is. But yer gonna be fine, Kata"

"I'll write," Harry promised. "I'll come back every chance I get." A pause cluttered his voice. "We used to hope for something like this. Remember how many times I told you it would never happen?"

Vividly.

I couldn't read Harry's expression. "It did."

I didn't say a word.

As the truth was outlined for me, I stared at my brother's eyes. Shielded behind his glasses, they held a possibility of excitement. I realized how many doors had always remained closed for us, and how much of his life had been spent making sure I was okay, alive, and out of trouble. How could I begrudge him the chance to see what awaited him beyond Privet Drive?

Not a single word.

center~*~*~*~/center

"I can't find it."

The final month Harry spent on Privet Drive wasn't the happiest of my life. The final night, however, was one of my worst. Tension had been erected, and I certainly wasn't going to be the one to shatter the silence that stood around our room.

Some poor, ignorant soul had given Dudley a book of poetry at one time or another. Neither a big reader nor a particular fan of depressed loners stringing angst-filled rhymes together(My interpretation of poetry: Oh, pain. Oh, suffering. My soul is dead. Nobody loves me. And then it rained. The end), it was out of pure desperation that I became the first person to crack open i_Best-Loved Poems of Childhood_./i

"Kata," Harry said. Pretending to be immersed in my book, I ignored him. "Have you seen my copy of i_A History of Magic_/i?"

I got the feeling I would've gotten along with this John Clare fellow.

i_I am: yet what I am none cares or knows,_

_My friends forsake me like a memory lost;_

_I am the self-consumer of my woes,_

_They rise and vanish in oblivious host,_

_Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;_

_And yet I am, and live with shadows tost._ /i

"Self-consumer of my woes…" I said quietly, licking my finger and turning the page thoughtfully. "That's nice…"

"I left it around here somewhere," Harry said, pawing around under the bed. Clouts of dust bubbled near the floorboards. "Are you sure you haven't seen it?"

I paged through a brief section of Brontë (both Emily and Charlotte) and said nothing.

Finding no other pieces that could hold my interest, I flipped back to the Clare. "Shades in love and death's oblivion lost…"

There was a boil of silence and anticipation.

"Oi!" Harry yelled. "Katarine! Care to put down the book and help me out?"

Simmering, I slammed the book closed. Its pages rioted. "I'm sorry, Harry. Maybe the book is crammed up your—"

"Watch it!"

I laughed ironically. "Oh? You're playing the first name card and telling me to watch my language? Who do you think you are?"

"Right now, I'm your older brother who's telling you to get over yourself and tell me what you did with my book!"

"What i_I_/i did?" I said indignantly, standing up and taking three furious strides towards him. "What makes you think I'd want anything to do with that stupid book?"

"Come off it!" Frustrated, Harry flattened his hair—a habit we shared—and redirected. "Look. I hate this thing just as much as you. If it made sense, I'd make them take you. But—"

"Nothing about this makes sense!" I objected, a trademark redhead blush seeping into my cheeks. "It doesn't makei _sense_ /ithat you're a wizard who comes from a wizard family and is going to go to a wizard school and wave a wizard wand! It doesn't make i_sense_ /ithat you're famous and no one even knows I exist! There's a whole other world hidden behind London, and iti _doesn't make sense_. /i But do you know whati _really _/idoesn't make sense? Why you would leave me in this last-chance town just because some people in robes tell you that's how it's supposed to be done. I mean, does it really suck that bad, being my older brother?"

Later, Harry would tell me what he was thinking.

The innermost thoughts of Harry Potter on August 31st, 1991: i _There is no right thing to do. _/i

But I didn't know. All I could see was a roadmap of what we'd always been: two. Joined. Brother and sister. I'd like to say we always got along, that we became best friends and talked about everything and were forever bonded. But, no. In nutshell, Harry and I were best friends because we annoyed the crap out of each other but there was no one else so we forced ourselves to be a part of the other one's life.

I was what most little sisters are: a pain. I irritated him, got in the way, judged and criticized. Gave him the silent treatment for days at a time, indulged in rude remarks and huffy bouts of anger when I felt they were necessary. Stole his stuff. Accidentally broke the stolen stuff. Hogged the shelf space and sang loudly even when he begged me to stop.

Harry never resented me, but he certainly had more than a few good reasons to.

And as we stood in the smallest bedroom, facing each other and arguing about books, I could see those reasons. They stood in the corner, loud and conspicuously i_there_./i They wrapped heavy hands around my wrists, making their presence known.

My question. It was still there. Damp and challenging.

iDoes it suck that much, being my older brother? /i

"No," Harry answered, because it was what he was supposed to say. "This has nothing to do with me."

It was true, quite possibly. And I should have treasured it. For a very long time, everything in my life would have less to do with me and more to do with a legend named Harry Potter.

center~*~*~*~/center

It took us a little while to leave the house the next morning, due mostly to the fact that Verno caught me trying to slash his tires. That sort of thing never ends well. After a) Aunt P convinced him not to slit my throat with the kitchen knife I'd been using and b) I discovered that being a witch didn't give me the inherent power to slash tires by staring unblinkingly at them for several minutes, we were on our way.

Silence was pungent in the car. Verno seemed to be in another nastily satisfied mood; he was convinced Harry's ticket was phony. I'd never heard of platform nine and three-quarters either, but personally I found it difficult to hold anything connected to magic in contempt. I'd seen a lot of freaky, seemingly impossible stuff in a very short time.

Verno's car idu jour/i pulled up to King's Cross about a half-hour before Harry was scheduled to be on a train. As we made our way to the platform, I dragged my feet and stared at the ground as Verno—sinister and chipper—wheeled Harry's trunk through the clamoring station.

Morning—what was left of if—fell into the station by way of people. I had never felt so surrounded, so connected. Bodies of every shape and origin made their ways through each other, passing over like light. Shoes attacked the concrete floors, and voices coming from every direction meshed into one indecipherable language. A pang entered my stomach as I thought that these people didn't know me and I didn't know them. Straps of sunlight in the windows. Smiles of greeting and tears of goodbye, all around me. This was a place of coming and of going.

Suddenly, nothing sounded separate from the rest. Verno's lips were parting and closing, saying something (probably a horrible something), but I couldn't pick out the gruff pitch of his voice from the squeals of train brakes or the dribble of footsteps. Harry's eyes were widening, dry panic spreading as Verno strode back to the car. Laughing, the Dursleys drove away. There was a single snarl of unyielding sound and the clock was punishing and my brother was looking at me and there should have been words between us but I couldn't find the right ones so I just said, "Where's the platform?"

People were beginning to stare. iWell, duh, /i I thought. That's what happens when two kids, a snowy owl, and a trunk stand staring at a blank patch of wall as if they expect it to do tricks.

Harry said something about asking a guard, and what could I do? I followed.

"Excuse me!" Harry called to a passing man in a uniform and an unfortunate mustache. "Can you tell me where I can find the train leaving for Hogwarts?"

"It's a school," I said, because I was ten and I thought that would help.

"Hogwarts," the guard echoed, his eyebrows contorting suspiciously. "Never heard of it. What part of the country?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't know."

The guard didn't like that. "A really big school," I tried again.

"What about the train that leaves at eleven?" Harry said.

A very ticked-off guard said, "No train in this station leaves at eleven." He strode away, shaking his head and muttering.

"Well," I said. "Well."

The long hand on the clock shuffled closer to the vertical position.

"There's got to be a trick or something," Harry said. "Like getting into Diagon Alley."

Well.

I was still having a hard time picking out individual sounds from the passing crowds, but Harry and I turned around simultaneously as we both heard a swatch of conversation from behind us.

"—always packed with Muggles—"

I punched Harry's arm and bounced on the soles of my feet, squealing, "They said Muggles, that's a wizard word, Muggles, they're wizards, and they have an iowl/i, talk to them, ask about the platform!"

Though we were desperate, Harry hesitated slightly. "It's fine," I said. "I always trust redheads. It's like a secret code between us."

He wheeled his cart after the speaker—a small red-haired woman—and her family. One could immediately tell they (the small woman, four boys, and a girl around my age) were family by their matching shocks of trustworthy red hair. I quite envied any kind of family resemblance. With Harry and I, you had to stare at us for several minutes before finally saying, "Well, I guess you look a little alike… no, never mind. Just a trick of the light."

We watched as the mother directed her children toward the space between platforms nine and ten. "Percy," she said. "You first."

A boy with an owl strapped to his trunk and glasses pressed far up onto his nose nodded, marching toward the platform gap and pushing his cart. Forever vexed by my height, I stood on my toes to watch.

And I saw.

"Holy hell," I said under my breath. The bespectacled boy had vanished completely in a shadow of tourists.

"Fred," the woman said, nonplussed. She indicated one of the three remaining boys. "Go next."

"I'm not Fred," the boy said, "I'm George. Honestly, woman, can't you tell us apart?"

I smiled as the redhead mother apologized. "Only joking," Fred/George said, "I'm Fred."

He ran towards the barrier, completely nonchalant. His twin was right behind him. They were almost there… and then they just iweren't/i.

I stepped on Harry's foot. "Excuse me," he said to the woman.

"Hello, dear," she said kindly. "First time to Hogwarts? Ron's new as well."

She indicated the last of her sons: a tall, ginger creature with something smudged on his nose.

"Yeah," Harry said. "The thing is… I can't figure out…"

"How to get on the platform?" she asked. Harry nodded gratefully.

"No one here's heard of it," I said, remembering the guard.

The woman smiled at me, and then addressed Harry. "It's very simple. All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier. Don't stop. And don't be afraid, that's very important. Get a good running start. Just go now, before Ron."

Harry swallowed, preparing to run at the barrier. "Wait," I said impulsively.

I scurried around to the front of the cart and climbed aboard, sitting on the trunk and gripping the straps for support. Hedwig hooted in surprise. "Gun it, Four-Eyes," I said.

Harry looked at me, opened his mouth, closed it, and then nodded.

Oddly enough, it was like a kind of truce. I knew Harry could barely push the cart with me sitting on it, but he didn't say anything about this. Maybe he realized that the return of my Kata-ness (I'd been sulking for days, but who else would demand to ride through a magic barrier on a luggage trolley?) meant I forgave him for what was happening. That, instead of just me, it was now happening to both of us.

We were going to crash. As soon as Harry started running, and the wheels started rocking and complaining under my feet, I knew that. The redheaded mother started to say something about my chosen method of transportation being unsafe, but it was too late. The speed of the air rushing past me was somewhat exhilarating, and I took several clenched breaths. Eyes wide open.

I saw the true platform nine and three-quarters before Harry did. An enormous steam engine in a shiny shade of red was parked next to a bustling platform. It was like a smaller version of the actual station. People and luggage and noise. A black iron archway crowned the scene.

I repeated an earlier sentiment: "Holy hell."

The cart slowed and then stopped. Harry cleared his throat, which I took as my cue to get down. We walked along the side of the train until Harry found an empty compartment. Loading the trunk into said compartment turned out to be the hard part.

"Lift with you knees," I grunted as he pushed and I dragged from above. The thing had to weigh more than I did. "I don't think you're really trying." And then I promptly dropped the trunk on Harry's foot.

One of the red-haired twins ambled towards us. "Need a hand?"

He called his brother over, and the three of them easily tucked the trunk inside. "Would've gotten it eventually," I muttered.

Stepping away from the compartment stairs, I took in the surrounding area. Owls called to each other in that perpetually annoyed manner owls have. A few straggling students hugged their parents or talked animatedly to friends. Two girls in their mid-teens played a complex-looking card game on an overturned trunk. In the corner, a sulking boy with frizzy clumps of black hair—as if he'd been recently electrocuted—stood with his parents, hands in pockets. He saw me looking, and I glanced away to a group of giggling girls, embracing and touching each other's hair.

If I closed my eyes, I could have been somewhere else. Noise was just ambiguous noise. These people, if you ignored the robes and wands, didn't i_have_/i to be wizards; they were the people I passed everyday as I walked through Little Whinging. They were Jeremy and Marc and Harry and Jilly and maybe even me. Linked.

One minute to eleven, and the clock chimed a single toll in warning. Students hastily ran everywhere, their families convening at the very edge of the platform to wave goodbye.

The following conversation was short and complete and final. Harry stepped down from the train and stood in front of me, awkwardly. I smoothed my hair, tucking it behind an ear. Deep breaths were taken. Efforts were made to remain calm.

The truth was, we had no idea how to do this. I knew he'd thought about it, and I had, but obviously neither of us had planned anything.

"Kata?"

"Yeah?"

"…"

"..."

"I'm sorry. About this. It… might not make sense to you, but it does to me."

I swatted that away and settled for a pathetic joke. "Knew you'd find a way to get rid of me sooner or later."

His smile was forced. "Took me long enough."

"Yeah, well. Having Kata is like having mold."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Yeah, I think we covered that."

"Stay out of trouble. Please. I'll see you soon."

"Yeah," I said. It didn't matter if Harry was telling the truth, I just needed to believe he was. "Soon."

Those were the words we said. The ones we needed to say, to keep us from floating away. For the life of me, I couldn't think of better ones. Neither of us were sentimental people, and you can only promise to write so many times. It was like ripping off band-aid: just do it, and do it quick. Just leave before you lose your nerve.

It turned out there was one more thing to say. I don't remember which one of us said it first. "'Bye."

If you've never stood next to a train just as it prepares for departure, you're one up on me in the luck department. Trains are loud—deafening—and relentless. They smother everything with smoke, making it impossible to see anything, even your brother as he gets on board and slides the compartment door closed. The whistle sounded twice, staccato and earsplitting, the slow grind of wheels started up, and suddenly there was movement.

I wish I would have run after the train, like the other younger siblings left behind. Nothing would have been different, but at least I could have felt like I did something besides watch. I don't even remember if Harry waved, or if I cried, or if I did anything besides choke on the air I was supposed to be breathing as my limbs turned to stone and a train erupted into the distance.

"You're Harry Potter's sister?" a meek voice asked from behind me just as the din of the train died away. It was the first time I got that label. Turning around, I saw the lone redhead child who had not gone to Hogwarts. "My brothers told me," she said. "Your brother told them."

"Yeah, I am" I said. It was true, and my sarcasm was running on 'E'; I couldn't think of anything witty to say.

"Oh." She nodded. "I wondered why you were alone."

I thought about earlier, in the main station where I'd felt so connected to every person moving through the crowd. "I'm pretty much surrounded," I said, mostly to myself.

She nodded again, a reflex. "I'm Ginny Weasley."

"Kata," I said, introducing myself sans surname.

Ginny Weasley blinked at the disappearing train. I could see something pressing on her mind, and after a few seconds she finally voiced it. "Do you have…?" she indicated her forehead.

I lifted my overgrown bangs. "I'm no one special."

I stayed at the platform as it emptied out, as Ginny Weasley and her mother went home and the scent of train smoke dissipated. I liked how a place that had been so alive and so filled with noise could settle into an eerie calm. I liked the vacant tracks, no longer rumbling with the movement of the Hogwarts Express. The way the air around me was still and indifferent as I sat down and leaned back against the iron archway, refusing to think about how I was going to get home. No one made me get up. No one asked who I was or why I was there or why I didn't leave. Finally, I got a bit of peace, and I relished it.

I just didn't understand magic.

And that's the end of it, I guess.

center~*~*~*~/center

Here's the thing about the Dursleys: I wasn't entirely sure they knew my name.

All my life, Aunt P had scrupulously maintained that 'Katarine' wasn't a real name. Whenever anyone used it instead of my preferred nickname, she muttered bitterly about how whoever named me was both a freak and a junkie. She called me Katherine if she called me anything at all; most of the time she just ignored me.

Verno, however, didn't bother with correcting spellings. He liked, "devil spawn", and "mutant twerp". I imagined one of his favorite pastimes to be reading the thesaurus, trying to think of more varied ways to insult me. So far, I hadn't heard him use the same one twice.

So, when the phone rang a week after Christmas and Verno shouted, "GIRL!" up the stairs, I knew it was for me. A bit disappointed he hadn't included a fun adjective (something endearing, like "oddball" or "runt"), I dragged myself into the kitchen. He thrust the receiver at me with a grunt.

I cleared my throat. "This is your twenty-four-hour suicide hotline. My name is Kata, how may we stop you from offing yourself today?"

A brief round of feedback crackled on the other line. "Kata?"

My stomach suddenly felt full of air as I recognized the voice. "_Mr. Mendota_?" I asked incredulously.

"What are you doing operating a suicide hotline?" he responded shrewdly. I could practically hear him raising his eyebrows.

I swallowed, pushing a chunk of hair from my eyes. "How'd you get this number?"

"I'm your teacher, Kata. Of course I have your number."

That particular aspect of the public education system slightly creeped me out, but I shoved that aside and concentrated on the matter at hand.

"Are you dying?" I asked, annoyed.

More feedback, louder this time. "Excuse me?"

"Are you on the side of the road, bleeding profusely, all alone?"

"No! And where did you learn the word 'profusely'?"

"It was on one of those dippy vocabulary lists you hand out," I said defensively. Just because I was failing school didn't mean I was stupid. "Not that I read them. I skimmed. One time. Anyway, are you telling me the only reason for this call is that you want to say hello?"

"Believe me, Kata Potter, if I were dying on the side of the road, you would i_not_/ibe the person I'd call." He paused, and I smiled a bit; I loved making adults talk in circles. "I'm calling because of your Twenty Things project."

My stomach did the airy thing again. A swell of clamminess broke over my skin, and I bit my lip. "Did I fail?" I said stridently.

"No, no," he said hurriedly. "No. Actually… This is the best, most authentic, most spectacular response I've ever been given to the question, 'What are the twenty things that make that world go 'round?'."

I choked on surprise, my head a mess of crumpled thoughts. "You… you i_liked_/i it?"

Mr. Mendota was odd, but he wasn't i_that_/i odd. My project had barely been done. It was a few stringy pieces of paper tossed together in a notebook. It wasn't deep, or meaningful, or conclusive. Not an assignment, ceremony, or quest. In short, my project had been nothing that a Twenty Things project was supposed to be. Unless my teacher had recently sustained a life-altering blow to the head, or actually i_was_/i dying on the side of the road, I didn't see how he could have anything good to say about me or my notebook. Especially after my performance at the school two weeks previously.

Maybe he was just going to quote more T.S. Eliot (I'd looked it up in Dudley's poetry book), say something completely cryptic and unhelpful, and then leave me even more confused and annoyed. That seemed like him.

"Of course I liked it!" he said. I could hear his trademark grin being smiled into the phone. i_Maybe I've fallen into Wonderland_/i, I thought. i_Maybe this is Anti-Mr. Mendota, and he's just messing with me_. /i "You're a very good writer, you know. Very moving. I'm proud of you, Kata."

To understand how I felt after those words, all you have to know is that no one had ever said them to me.

I rode the rush of approval as Mr. Mendota kept piling on the praise. "I've seen students write letters before," he said, "but the concept of 'Dear Friend'—especially coming from someone like you—was so unexpected and so… real. I feel like you really understood the point of the assignment.

"Anyway, I'm calling to let you know that I've entered your Twenty Things in a competition for young writers, and I'm confident you'll do well. I'm out of town for the holidays, but once we're back in school I'll give you the details—"

My hand flexed and I dropped the receiver, letting it drip to the ground. A sudden clamminess cooked on my forehead, and gravity wasn't enough to keep me standing anymore. Breathing as if I'd just run the circumference of the world, I leaned onto the wall and tasted panic on my tongue. My vision went pulpy, and suddenly all I could see was the color green—the waxen, solid leaf green that had been both the Twenty Things notebook and the Dear Friend notebook.

Identical. Indistinguishable, accept for a stupid Hello Kitty sticker that I couldn't have been expected to see when having a mental breakdown.

My voice was fractured, full of cracks. It wobbled, collapsed as soon as I spit it out. "Mr. Mendota," I said, even though he couldn't hear me anymore, "I think I may have given you the wrong notebook."

**End Notes**: Okay. Kata is not Seer. She can't feel 'wand vibes'. She's just an annoying ten-year-old kid. Just thought I'd mention that.

Some of you may say that Harry was OOC in this chapter. The famously selfless Harry Potter, leaving Kata behind? Never! Believe me, he has his reasons. They happen to be good ones, too. You'll just have to wait and see… Harry is still Harry. More than anything else, I've tried to stay absolutely true to his character. Leave me a review, let me know how I'm doing.

Who else likes Zane Liestman? :) If I continue with the rest of Kata's series, he'll show up again. HOWEVER. I don't' want you people walking away from this story with the impression that Kata and Zane will ever be Zata or Kane, or anything like that. It's not like, i Hey, it's the first book in the series! I should show everybody the guy my main character is going to spend the rest of her life with! /i

Just so we're clear.

~*Eva*~


	10. Chapter 10

Ten: The Car Crashes and Broken Arms That Change Our Lives 

**Chapter Notes: **I had this chapter entirely written, and then I realized the horrible similarity between a particular scene in it, and the scene in Twilight where Edward saves Bella. The only difference is lack of romance. I'm so, so sorry. If it helps, I think Mr. Mendota is a wee bit cooler than Edward. He's never killed anyone, at least, and he doesn't do the creepy sparkly thing. That I'm aware of. (He's an odd bloke; who knows?) Anywho, please forgive me for my subliminal mimicry. And, if you're a Twi-Hard, don't come after me for my previous comments. I don't own Harry Potter, but I have a lovely cupboard he could sleep in should the opportunity arise. I also don't own Batman, the Magna Carta, Lord of the Rings, Dr. Suess, Winnie the Pooh, "Hey, Jude", or the BBC. Also, a clarification: there are two sections of this chapter that do not occur in the "present" setting of Kata's story. They're not classified as flashbacks, and they're not in italics. I'm confident y'all will be able to discern the difference. It basically goes: one year previously, present day, six years previously, present day.

Yes, I said 'y'all'. And, yes, I can hear the Brits laughing. THANK YOU.

center~*~*~*~/center

When 1991 arrived, Harry and I were at Mrs. Figg's. The Dursleys had gone to a New Year's Eve party hosted by one of Verno's colleagues, and for whatever reason, I wasn't invited. Figg wasn't much of a party animal. She fell asleep by ten o' clock, one of her interchangeable cats curled up and purring on her lap. I conked out soon after, my head pillowed against my arm. Harry let me sleep for a while, but woke me up when the clock in Town Square chimed the midnight hour and people could be heard whooping and toasting each other throughout the streets.

"Kat," he said, nudging my arm. "It's midnight. It's New Year's."

I shifted into awareness roughly. A bluish glow from the muted television clouded my

brother's face. Blearily, I yawned and shook my hair out of my eyes. "What?"

"Happy New Year. It's 1991."

I threw a tasseled, moldy-smelling cushion at him. "Go away. I'm sleeping."

Harry looked confused, which was completely normal. Even though he'd known me all my life, I never lost the ability to confuse him. "You told me to wake you up when it was New Year's," he reminded me.

"It's not New Year's until I say it is."

"I don't think that's how it works."

"Shh. Sleeping."

But that was the last year, the last of years. And things always change.

center~*~*~*~/center

"I am going to i_murder_/i Dudley!" I shrieked, clutching my arm. "I'm going to slit his stomach open with a butcher knife, yank out his intestines, and strangle him with them!"

I should mention that I shrieked all of this into a pillow, after I'd gotten home from the Whinging General Hospital Emergency Centre on New Year's Eve. Hidden under a black Velcro brace, I had a fracture on my left wrist.

"And then I'm going to burn the Smelting Stick! Profusely!" I continued, because the Smelting Stick was more of a problem than my git of a cousin, and because I really wanted another chance to use the word 'profusely'. It made me feel smart.

Earlier that day, I had learned several things: a) Dudley's fear of magic and experience with his tail had not discouraged him from harassing me, b) If you strike a young girl's wrist just right with a Smelting Stick, said wrist will break and cause her quite a lot of pain, c) If you do nothing but ignore/insult/annoy your aunt for four months, she will be very reluctant to drive you to the hospital and may even deny that anything is wrong with your injured wrist, and d) Riding on Jeremy Flinker's bike handlebars to the hospital is not the best of ideas. Especially with a swollen and aching wrist.

Scandalized that Jeremy was my back-up plan, Aunt P caught up with us halfway down Magnolia Crescent (it was slow-going, as Jeremy couldn't see over my hair and kept swearing as his tire struck potholes) and barked at me to get in the car. I couldn't go to the hospital without an adult anyway, she said.

Jeremy came along, which I as grateful for, because Aunt P seemed to be physically swelling with anger.

"Isn't this, like, the i_eighth_/itime you've broken that arm?" Jeremy said, grinning in a way that a person shouldn't when their best friend is mortally wounded.

I groaned internally. "Third," I said. "And I think it's my wrist."

"It's not broken," Aunt P said in an undertone, gripping the steering wheel with furious intensity. She didn't like driving, and constantly checked her mirrors and gas gauge. Her shoulders stayed taut for the entire ride, and her eye twitched every time she hit a turn signal.

"Is too," I muttered to myself, internally counting backwards from one hundred to distract myself. As Jeremy had pointed out, I'd been through this before and knew what it felt like.

"D'you remember that time my dad almost ran over you with his car and you broke the other arm?" Jeremy began, obviously ready to launch into _that_ thrilling tale.

"Jere," I said through my teeth, "That's a great story and all, but if you don't shut up I'm going to punch you with my i_other_/i arm."

"Be quiet," Aunt P snapped, turning a corner. "I'm trying to drive."

center~*~*~*~/center

The incident Jeremy mentioned in the car occurred when I was four years old, just after Harry had started school. It was a defining moment for me, considering that, as Jeremy was a year older then me and a i_boy_/i(I was four; boys had cooties), we probably never would have become friends had it not happened.

It all began when I decided to run away from home. I must have picked up the idea on a television show of something. At four, I was mature for my age (I have no idea where all that maturity disappeared to by the time I was ten), and I was also very lonely. With my older brother shut up in a classroom for eight hours of the days, and Aunt P yelling at me to stop sulking around the house, I didn't have anyone to talk to but the obligatory imaginary friend that all four-year-olds are allotted. Her name was Katta. She had blonde hair and could do tai kwon do. But she wasn't much company. So, one day, I decided to run away and join the circus. That was the extent of both the planning and the plan. I suppose I was simply going to walk along the side of the road until I found a circus.

I had the courtesy to alert Aunt P first. After packing a bag (a small Winnie the Pooh backpack filled with juice pouches and extra socks), I marched into the kitchen, where she was disinfecting something, and announced, "I'm going to be in the circus now."

She barely glanced up. "Don't walk on the floor in those shoes," she snapped. "I just mopped."

I made it all the way to Main Street without much incident. Little Whinging was an absurdly safe town; the only dangers were busybodies. As soon as I was old enough, I had taken to walking the streets, so I knew them well. I was not, however, well acquainted with basic rules of the road.

People say it all the time: iDidn't your parents ever tell you to look both ways before crossing the street? /i

Well. No, actually, they never did. So, my younger self naturally assumed it was perfectly all right to march from one side of Main Street to the other. She thought it was a good idea to stop in the middle and squat down to investigate a large, sweaty slug. And she thought it was a good idea to sing to herself a little song entitled "I'm going to the circus/ yeah, the circus, yeah/ that's a cool slug right there/ yeahyeahyeah".

I heard Mr. Flinker's cobalt blue truck approaching, but I didn't really process it. My four-year-old mind was more fascinated with slugs and clowns than the sound of worn tires swallowing sun-warmed pavement.

Being very small, I can understand that Mr. Flinker didn't see me right away. But, as he told me later, my bright hair was just visible from his position in the driver's seat, and he stomped on the brakes before the nose of the truck could do anything more than clip my side at an odd angle. The squeal of the truck woke me from my slug-induced reverie. I toppled backward, and my arm ended up sandwiched between the road and the rest of my body. And distinct crack flew into my ears. There was a tremendous popping noise and a sudden spurt of liquid as a dozen juice pouches burst and vomited their contents everywhere. My Winnie the Pooh backpack had been squished, too.

I was _aware_ that my arm hurt, but it was weird—the human body does this fantastic thing called "releasing hormones to block pain." Some cocktail of endorphins and adrenaline and pure four-year-old spunk kept me from crying or doing anything other than smelling like tropical punch and saying, "You killed the slug," when Mr. Flinker raced out of his truck and started asking me if I was okay (at top volume). Because, indeed, the slug had gone the same way as my juice pouches; its final resting place was the underside of a tire.

Me: "The slug. You killed it. It's a cool slug."

Jeremy's dad: "OH HELL, OH HELL, I MEAN HECK, JEREMY, CALL YOUR MOTHER, CALL THE HOSPITAL, ARE YOU OKAY, WHAT'S YOUR NAME, WHAT'S ALL THAT STUFF, IS THAT STRAWBERRY, ARE YOU OKAY, PLEASE BE OKAY."

I briefly mulled over this long statement. "My arm hurts," I said, because it did, and because I was very confused with the proceedings.

Not knowing what else to do, Mr. Flinker took me to the hospital, which was half an hour outside of Little Whinging. He put me in the back seat, buckled me in tightly, and kept asking for my name. I told him. Jeremy, who rode shotgun, shrieked repeatedly that I might have a "cussion". Mr. Flinker asked Jeremy how he knew what a concussion was, and Jeremy said he'd seen it on the telly, and somewhere in all of that my arm began to burn like someone had set fire to it. I started to cry, loudly, and Mr. Flinker cursed again.

"That's a bad word," Jeremy pointed out. He then looked at me. "Kata's a weird name."

Couldn't fault him there. I just kept crying; I didn't want to go the to circus anymore, I just wanted to go to someplace where my arm didn't hurt.

"I'm Jeremy Flinker," Jeremy continued in that self-important manner little kids have. "I'm skiving off," he added, his chest swelling with pride. I didn't know what "skiving off" meant, and I wasn't interested to learn.

"Jeremy!" Mr. Flinker said. "What did I say?"

Jeremy grinned. "You said I couldn't tell Mum. You didn't say I couldn't tell i_her_. /i"

Mr. Flinker was probably the coolest dad ever. Whenever there was nothing particularly interesting going on at school, or whenever one of them had gotten good marks for the term, he'd let Jeremy or Mattie stay home and help him at Flinker's. I was hugely envious of this.

I was not in good shape when we finally pulled into Whinging General Hospital, due mostly to an agonizing arm and a really annoying Jeremy. He kept up a constant stream of chatter, about everything from Batman to tattoos ("When I get old enough, I'm gonna get a python on my leg!"). Besides this, there was also the waiting room. Unless you're having a severe allergic reaction, or you've been shot, or something, Whinging General Hospital makes you sit around for a while and fill out a bunch of papers about contact information and whatnot. They do this even if you're four and adorable and are with two complete strangers and have a broken arm ("Dad! Dad! Look, Dad, it's turning purple! i_Dad!_" /i). Throughout the ride to the hospital, Mr. Flinker had asked me repeatedly what my phone number was, and how to get in touch with my parents, etc. I didn't know my phone number. For Christ's sake, I didn't even know to look both ways before crossing the freaking street. I'm sure Mr. Flinker was, at the least, unnerved with what was happening. He just kept telling me that it was going to be okay.

His fears were ebbed, though, when Dr. Hampton came into the Room of Eternal Holdup and called my name. Shocked, he looked at the clipboard, looked at me, and smiled. "Kata!" he said. "I thought we told you not to come back and see us."

Relieved at the sight of a semi-familiar face, I straightened up in the uncomfortable waiting room chair and stopped crying long enough to sum up the morning's events for him. "I ran away to the circus and my arm hurts and _he killed the slug_."

Mr. Flinker went white. "Do you know her?" he demanded of Dr. Hampton. "I swear it was an accident. She was sitting in the middle of the road, and I didn't really hit her, but she fell back and all her weight kind of went onto her arm like this." Jeremy's dad demonstrated by bending his arm into a forty-five degree angle and leaning forward as if he were falling. "I didn't know what to do, so I just brought her here… and I just didn't know." This was typical Mr. Flinker; he was very adept at stirring sauces and being a dad and all that great stuff, but he was an introvert around people he didn't know and entirely awkward under pressure.

"I'm supposed to be in school," Jeremy said giddily. No one responded.

"Kata came in three weeks ago with an allergic reaction," Dr. Hampton explained to Mr. Flinker. Squatting down to my level, he shook his head and clucked his tongue. "What're we going to do with you, madam? You ought to learn to be more careful."

"I don't know if she hit her head," Mr. Flinker said, and it began to bug me that he was talking about me as if I wasn't there.

Dr. Hampton pulled out a small, metal flashlight-ish object and shone it into my left eye.

"Ahhh," I said, because that's what doctors tell you to do. Dr. Hampton chuckled and shone the light into my other eye.

"What's your name?" he asked, even though my name had been said. It's one of those standard icheck and see if the child has brain damage/i questions.

"Katarine Potter," I replied, pulling out the full name in hopes of getting him to shine that light somewhere else.

"Good," Dr. Hampton said. He glanced at his clipboard. "When's your birthday?"

I told him.

"Where am I getting the python?" Jeremy chimed in, trying to help.

"On you leg."

Dr. Hampton stood up, motioned to a nurse wearing pink scrubs, and smiled at me again. "Well, I think your head's fine, Kata. Let's see what we can do about that arm, eh?"

And then he touched the skin of my wrist lightly, with the first two fingers of his right hand, reminding me that I was in pain. Faced with no other alternative, I resumed crying.

center~*~*~*~/center

I lay in bed, eyes ogling the ceiling, thinking of nothing in particular. I wasn't tired, but I wanted to be asleep when the bells rang out the beginning of 1992. I wanted them to wake me up. I wanted toi remember/i. Downstairs, I knew there was a party going on. The Dursleys had hosted it this year, and given my hermit-like behavior, they trusted me enough to stay upstairs and didn't relegate me to Mrs. Figg's.

Glasses clinked, ice jangling around in them. Appetizers and salmon puffs—I guess I can't know for sure, but don't those things always include salmon puffs? — circled the room. It was painfully normal. My injured wrist tingled a bit, as if the sound of an ordinary, non-magical world set off some new kind of pain. I knew that those people probably weren't happy. They probably didn't want to get dressed up and wear agonizing shoes and make forced chitchat as a new year began. Perhaps they _thought _they wanted it, but even a ten-year-old girl with bottom marks and a permanent clueless-ness could tell they really didn't.

They weren't happy, but at least they were blissfully unaware of other possibilities. Me… I wasn't even sure if I wanted to be happy anymore. I wasn't sure if I wanted magic, because I just wanted things to be the way they had been. Cupboards and all.

I didn't even move when the partygoers' voices suddenly synchronized, counting down from ten and ending in a uproar of cheering. Laughter and careless chatter burbled. Wine glasses collided and resounded. There are only so many ways to describe the party that was happening in a million different places, a million different towns, simpering and meaningless, coated with humanity.

The bells. They opened. They sang. I had listened to them methodically, every hour of every day, for my entire life. But for the first time, I iheard/i them.

In school, we'd been studying beginner's chemistry— atoms and protons and electrons, that sort of thing. I didn't understand most of it, even though the lessons were taught very basically, at a sixth grade level. But I understood that everything is made of atoms, atoms of the different elements. There are a lot of those, like Magnesium and Boron and salt. So, essentially, I was made of the same stuff as bells. The same stuff as magic wands and green notebooks and Smelting Sticks. If you broke us down scientifically, and tore us apart, I was the same as Mr. Mendota and Winnie Alderton and Harry. We couldn't be separate, ever.

What made us different?

Maybe that was in the next lesson.

When the bells stopped tolling, and the quiet that followed was peppered by the sounds of the party and my throbbing thoughts, I closed my eyes. "Hey, Harry," I said. "It's New Year's now. Just to let you know."

Silence. Of course. I shut my eyes tighter and barely noticed when tears squeezed out of their corners. It was the first time I cried, if memory serves. It was also the last. But I needed to do it. It was just one of those things.

Mr. Mendota was really something.

On the first day of second term, I arrived at school half-an-hour early (stooping so low as to bum a ride from Aunt P and endure a ten-minute rant on the various ways I was a failure as a person) with the sole intention of talking to my teacher about the mix-up with my Twenty Things and Dear Friend notebooks. For days, I had thought of nothing else. Sitting in my room with the door locked and the curtains drawn, I tried to remember every letter I'd written to my not-a-diary, and whether they contained details of magic. Nothing sprung to mind. Still, a horrible suspicion weighed me down; I was certain I must've written something I shouldn't have.

In the words of Jeremy Flinker—I explained the situation to him as best I could, omitting the "I may have just exposed an entire secret world with my school project" part— I was "damn screwed."

Anyway. First day. Early. Talking.

Mr. Mendota, as it happened, was not early. He scrambled through the classroom door just as the final bell sounded, and waved me away as I tried to launch into a prepared speech. A million different stories were balanced on my tongue, waiting to be fired off. I had wild and wilder excuses, but I never got a chance to use any of them. Instead of listening to my apparently high-pitched voice, Mr. Mendota quieted the class and announced we were changing seat partners. This was supposed to teach us how to Handle People in Real Life Situations. Melanie and I glanced at each other. I could tell she was anxious to be rid of me.

There were no parting tears.

My new seatmate was Sherrie. Over the holidays, someone had braided her bronze-blonde hair into cornrows. I noticed that her shoes were on the wrong feet. I was still a bit frightened that Sherrie may had heard my revelation of the truth to Jilly, but it's hard to be a afraid of a person who can't tell their right from their left.

"Your shoes are on the wrong feet," was the first thing I said to her. I figured she ought to know.

Sherrie glanced unworriedly at her shoes. "No, they're not," she said. "I'm doing an experiment. They're not on the wrong feet if I say they're on the right feet. What's wrongly right for you could be rightly wrong for me. Wrong and right could be wrong ior/i right, depending on the right person or wrong feet. Right?"

I blinked. Well. "That makes no sense."

Sherrie smiled and clicked her heels together. Her dreamy eyes fixed on mine. "The experiment has nothing to do with shoes. I'm trying to see who can follow what I say. Congratulations, Kata Potter—you're a scientist."

I gave Sherrie an apprising sort of look. She shook her cornrows out of her eyes and swung her feet, unperturbed by my calculating gaze. She basked under my eyes as if they were spotlights. I wondered what could possibly go on inside Sherrie Parker's head. She was certainly a bit of an oddball… a misfit…

She was the only other person in the class who had as few friends as I did. Whether she realised it or not, Sherrie was stared at as much as I was. This united us, on the surface.

"I like your sweater," she said airily. I was wearing my Mystery Sweater, the one that had inexplicably appeared in my room on Christmas morning. "It brings out the purple in your eyes."

"My eyes are green," I said.

"Are they?" She seemed genuinely surprised, and quickly looked at me, studying my eyes for longer than the time necessary to determine their colour. "Oh."

"Yeah," I said. I could've sworn she'd looked me in the eyes several times since the initiation of this horribly awkward conversation. "They've been that way for a while now."

"It's supposed to snow again tomorrow," she said.

Sherrie had some kind of issue with announcing when she was going to change the subject.

"Uh," I said intelligently.

"I got a magic kit for Christmas," she said.

I—logically—took this as a threat. "YOU CAN'T PROVE ANYTHING!" I shouted.

The classroom crashed into silence. Everyone looked at us. Sherrie began doodling on a piece of notebook paper, obliviously humming under her breath. I doubted she'd even heard me.

Going red under the collective gaze of my classmates, I put my head down on the desk and resigned myself to a long second term.

He ignored me, he entered my not-a-diary into a writing competition without my consent, and he paired me with Sherrie Parker in his brilliant two-by-two seating system. So, yeah. Mr. Mendota was really something.

center~*~*~*~/center

I approached him after class instead.

"Ah, Kata," he said as I trudged up to his desk, backpack strung across my shoulders and arms crossed so tightly I could barely breathe. I remembered, with a jolt, that Mr. Mendota still had no clue that anything was wrong with my notebooks. Maybe he thought I'd hung up on him for fun. He gave me a proud smile, and something deep inside of me cracked.

My teacher picked up a waxy pamphlet from a pile of papers on his desk. I bit my tongue until it was bathed in blood. The title read iSurrey Regional Young Writers Competition/i. A lump of dread fell into my stomach.

I took a moment to marvel at my ability to completely screw everything up in a period of less than six months. Other people had been left behind—Aunt P was a perfect example, though I didn't really enjoy being grouped with her. And none of those people had gone and blown the secret of the wizarding world. I was truly a special case: I didn't even have to try to mess up. I just did. I screwed up, continually, every day of my life. And then there was, like, an eight-hour period in which I didn't screw anything up because I was sleeping. But as soon as I woke up, everything started again and I just kept screwing up until there was nothing left.

I wondered what Mr. Mendota had read, how much he knew. Did he believe any of it, or think I was making up stories? Did it matter? I had no idea. He didn't accuse me of either being a witch or pretending to be a witch, so I supposed I was in the clear. i_He doesn't believe in magic_/i, I remembered. The most conclusive proof possible was standing in front of him, and he didn't believe in magic. How much does it take to shove a little impossibility into a person's realm of i_possibility_/i?

Next to his desk, Mr. Mendota had a large, thin-paged Dictionary sitting on a fake-wood pedestal. It was close enough that I could see what page lay open: dipstick through discretion. I was barely two meters from the words—all the words in the world! And I couldn't find any to say.

I took the pamphlet. It was weightless in my hand.

The hallway was pressingly silent as I walked it, which was too bad. A ragged scream was balling up in the back of my throat, and it wasn't going to stay there forever.

center~*~*~*~/center

January was… interesting. Between schoolwork, transportation issues (my bike had been vandalized when I left it parked outside of the library; I suspected Dark magic), and many strange conversations with Sherrie, I barely had a spare moment. Maybe it was because I had finally done something right in his eyes, but Mr. Mendota suddenly expected me to actually do the assigned homework. I maintain that it was because I had nothing better to do, but I found myself studying up on protons and electrons, struggling through history, and writing a book report on iAlice's Adventures in Wonderland/iJeremy fruitlessly tried to explain History to me. History annoyed me. There seemed to be a lot of wars; I didn't understand why everybody couldn't just get along.

Having moved past the "Twenty Things" unit of English, Mr. Mendota had decided to teach us some mythology. Let me just say: I can't imagine a single career in the history of forever in which I'd need to know whether Demeter was the goddess of harvest or hats, or why Poseidon cursed Cassiopeia by turning her into a W-shaped constellation. Sure, this knowledge will help you out should you ever appear on a game show. You might be a hit at dinner parties. But I see no practical use for mythology.

Mr. M disagreed. So, for the next few weeks, I was stuck mixing up Chiron and Charon and trying to remember the correct pronunciation for Eurydice.

During one of these lectures, as Sherrie and I played hangman on a scrap of paper (she won, but how was I supposed to know that 'zydeco' was a real word?), Mr. Mendota told us a story about the origin of love and loss.

"Humans were initially created with four arms, four legs, and two faces. Essentially, these early people were like conjoined twins. The great god Zeus, however, feared the power of humans. He was worried they might usurp the gods. So, he split them it half. And he condemned everyone to a long, long life of searching for their counterpart. Some cultures believe that one half is a man and one half is a woman, and if the two ever meet they fall into a kind of predestined love. Others disagree, however, and say that we are forever searching for a deeper understanding of ourselves." Here, he paused and grinned sardonically. "Of course, it's only a myth."

center~*~*~*~/center

I don't know why everyone assumes I have an aversion to my full name. In reality, I actually love the name Katarine—it sounds regal and important; it sounds like a girl that can hold her head up, a girl who laughs all the time, a girl who has the whole freaking world figured out. I sometimes thought of Katarine as a different person than myself. A worldlier, sophisticated version of the girl I wanted to be.

When I was little, so little I barely remember it, people called me Katty. I can't even begin to describe how much I hated that. It was too frilly, too cute to be me. Katty was not a little girl who used the garden hose and some potted plants to make a realistic swamp in the backyard so that she could "go explorer-ing". Katty didn't ambush the neighbor's miniature yorkie with that same garden hose, claiming the dog was the not-so-mythical Sharp-Toothed Snuffler (more on that later).

There are a lot of ways to go with my name: Katty, Kat, Kay, Rine, Rinny, Kerry—trust me, I've heard it all. I don't know exactly how or when we selected Kata, or, for that matter, who did the selecting. I probably wasn't Harry; he calls me Kat or Katarine, depending on his mood. It certainly wasn't Aunt P or Verno, because, like I've said, I don't think they even know my first name. By the time I met Jeremy or Jilly, I was full-fledged Kata. It would seem I just woke up one morning with a name clutched in my hands. Maybe that's all there is to it: maybe I couldn't decide who I wanted to be, so a worldlier, more sophisticated someone made the choice I didn't even know I had.

center~*~*~*~/center

I've had my life saved a few times over the years. I won't go into details about those other times, because this is a story, and everybody knows you don't give away the ending to a story before it actually i_is/i_ the ending. This isn't the ending. It is the part where Mr. Mendota grabbed my backpack straps.

This is a story, like I just said. And I think it's a pretty good thing that I'm telling it. If Mr. Mendota was telling this story, you might not even have realised that it was my life he was saving. Yes—it was physically me. But considering the method of saving, I can't help but think that holding me back was his second chance. It was what he'd never get the chance to do.

Jeannie Mayfield was a fourth grade girl with straight brown hair and a tendency to bite her nails from anxiety or boredom. For a reason I'm still not sure of, she smelled like glue. She hung on the fringes, just one of those girls; the ones whose names people can't recall when they look at their primary school yearbooks years later. She was the equivalent of Sherrie, perhaps without the random fits of intelligence and the creepy creative intuition. Jeannie was painfully normal, except for one thing: her mother drove like a freaking maniac. Mundane things like merge lines and stoplights meant nothing to Mrs. Mayfield. Rules of the road became suggestions. Small, redhead girls became target practice.

In an uncharacteristic fashion, I was reading as I left the school—several days after the start of term— and walking through the remnants of a recent snowstorm toward the sidewalk that led away from Stonewall Primary. Rereading, actually. i_The Two Towers_/i. With the exception ofthe Dr. Suess masterpieces, i_The Lord of the Rings_/iis basically the only book I ever read. This created some problems later in life (the great ringwraiths vs. dementors debate of '93), but that's not the point.

I was walking—distracted—but still on the crosswalk—hat over ears, distorting noise—eyes flicking through a description of Middle-earth—a screech of rubber tires against pavement that shone with melting snow and reflected winter sun. In surprise, I dropped my book. It fell into a bank of snow, and my mouth fell open and confusion paralyzed me and I didn't move on my own and there was a flash of beige that I couldn't place.

Someone shouted my name. My eyes widened as Mrs. Mayfield's van came barreling towards me, the tires jutting and squealing, the horn sounding. I felt a hand size the straps of my backpack, my feet struggled for purchase, and then I was back on the sidewalk, away from the speeding van. Mayfield recovered quickly and drove away, glancing furiously in her mirrors to see if anyone had noticed.

The hand released me, and I stumbled a bit before recovering my footing. Looking up, still in a mist of confusion, I saw Mr. Mendota, wrapped in a beige trench coat and breathing heavily. He was livid.

"Don't you know to look both ways before you cross the street?" he hissed. I bit my lip, staring at my hands, realising they were empty.

"Book…" I said dumbly. I think I may have been in shock. My heart felt like it was trying to disentangle itself from my chest. My face flushed, and—even though the danger was passed, and even though the danger had been remote—I was afraid.

Mr. Mendota sighed and retrieved my book from where it had landed, a few meters away in a small mountain of slushy snow. The pages were bloated and soggy. I mourned, briefly, for the Hobbits and for the story I would never re-finish.

"It's ruined," I said.

I don't know if my teacher heard me. He pressed i_The Two Towers_/iinto my gloved hands. From cold and belated adrenaline, I shook.

"It's just a book," he said, violating the sacred Code of Teachers. i_Thou shalt not ever sayeth, "It's just a book."_/i"You almost got hit by a car." I suppose we were both in shock.

"Thanks for that," I said, because it's just basic etiquette. When someone saves you from a road-raging maniac of a driver, you say thank you.

I was pretty sure that I could have dove out of the way, even if Mr. Mendota hadn't been right behind me. It would have been delayed, and the side of the van might have clipped me, but I would have lived. So, I don't know what exactly I was thanking him for. For being there. For having the impulse to reach out and save me, when no one else would.

"You're welcome," he said, and that was that. It wasn't like I was hurt, just a little stunned. Perhaps if he'd been in better shape, he would have suggested I see the school nurse, but it wasn't necessary. I walked away, but I took the sidewalks. That was when I started to think about the Twenty Things in a different sort of way.

The Twenty Things were a quest, as I had previously defined them. But maybe it was a quest for i_questing_/i, instead of a quest that had a reachable destination. Maybe the goal was to just keep holding on, and take it day by day, and to never physically reach a point where you could say, "Boom. These are my Twenty Things. This is my victory." We were looking for the meaning of something bigger than ourselves, right? And it's not like sixth graders should be expected to know themselves. So maybe Mr. Mendota gave us the assignment early, with the hope that we'd carry it with us wherever we ended up. Defining yourself—saving yourself, knowing yourself, being yourself—is eternal.

Then again. Maybe the Twenty Things were nothing more than the bizarre ideas of a thoroughly bizarre man.

center~*~*~*~/center

Five days after my tenth birthday, there was a total solar eclipse on the other side of the world. Mexico, Central America, and parts of Hawaii were entirely blacked out by the moon for a whole seven minutes. The BBC sent an anchor to Mexico (the point at which the sun would be directly above) to cover the eclipse, and I watched the live report in the Dursleys' living room, with Harry.

"In just a few short minutes, the moon will slide into place in front of the sun and totality will begin," the anchor said enthusiastically. I didn't recognise her; she was young and clearly ecstatic to be taking on such a big story. As she continued with her report, describing mechanics of the eclipse I was too young to comprehend or care about, I remember staring at her teeth, thinking how white they were and wondering how a person got teeth that so closely resembled pearls. "The experience of totality," she said, "is said to be a life-changing and remarkable one. As the moon closes in, the normal daytime sky will be replaced with one resembling twilight. The moon's shadow will spread over the scene at speeds of almost two thousand kilometers per hour. Our sun, the epicenter of our cosmos, will have its light extinguished by the black shadow of the moon, except for the solar corona— which is a ghostly, delicate collar of sunlight shining though from beyond the obstacle of the moon."

All of a sudden, a rush of voices and momentum came from the crowd behind Veronica Jasin (that was the anchor's name). People smiled hugely, and shoved protective glasses onto their faces. There was a moment of unity among those people—and everyone viewing the coverage from various locations around the world. That was _our_ sun. It was the same sun that each of us saw when we woke up in the morning, and the same sun that dipped behind clouds every night.

Mr. Mendota told me never to look directly at the sun. i_Hurts your eyes_/i_,_ he'd told me.

I wonder if he watched the eclipse, like I did. I wonder if he i_experienced_/ithe eclipse like I did.

I am not one to sit quietly, or keep my thoughts to myself. Fidgeting is practically a way of life for me; I don't hold still long enough to do anything. Silence is my kryptonite. But for seven minutes—seven minutes in which I could have soft-boiled and egg or sang "Hey, Jude" or ridden by bike to Jeremy's house and back—I rested on the edge of my seat, hands folded tightly in my lap, watching the unfaltering coverage of unforgettable totality. I sensed that Veronica Jasin had planned to continue her speech through the eclipse, but had then found herself dumbstruck by the beauty of a synchronized sun and moon. It must have been a million times more powerful in person.

Even if I was viewing it somewhat indirectly, I didn't want it to end.

It did, though. Of course it did. The moon's shadow swept over the landscape again, and the sun was just as bright as it'd ever been. People took off their protective glasses. Their voices started up, gushing about what had just happened. Veronica Jasin turned toward the camera, her expression shaky. Words weren't coming as naturally to her as they had before. If she had rehearsed anything, it had been a wasted effort.

"The word 'eclipse'," she finally said, "comes from the Greek 'iekleipsis/i', meaning 'abandonment'."

Harry and I. Sitting there. Watching an eclipse that seemed bigger than anything in the world, even the magic we still didn't know about.

It was over too soon. But we're not talking about the eclipse anymore, are we?

center~*~*~*~/center

Before I knew about magic, I believed that my parents died in a car crash. I was young and gullible and this explanation seemed to satisfy everything—Harry's scar; my status as a doorstep baby. I even rationalized the flash of green light Harry remembered, telling myself it was a changing traffic light. People die in car crashes all the time. It wasn't hard to accept.

But I used to wonder where we were going. I used to wonder how things would've been if we'd made it there.

**Chapter End Notes: **The story of Kata-ran-away-from-home-and-almost-got-an-over-by-a-truck-but-didn't-and-broke-her-arm is a true one. I was nine, and it hurt like you can't imagine, but at least I got my good friend Julia out of it. :) Chapter eleven is coming soon to a theater near you. It's cute. ~*Eva*~


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Notes: **A lot of the conversations in this chapter are very strange and do not make any sense. It's pretty much the same scene repeated a few times, with Kata and Sherrie; Kata and Jeremy; Kata and Mr. Millerton. I promise there's a reason for all the wackiness. Later in the story, more than once, you will point to something on your screen and say, "That was in Chapter Eleven! Chapter Eleven is a garden of bountiful foreshadowing, and everyone should pay special super-duper attention to Chapter Eleven!" This will happen later in the series, too. Evidence: the scene featuring fifteen-year-old drunk Kata. That will be explained in the _veryveryveryvery _distant future. Adam is another OC. He's important. So is Millerton. I bet a lot of people have already figured out what's up with him… or not. Okay. Read and you shall discover!

I don't own Harry Potter, or A Very Potter Musical. If you find the AVPM reference, I will give you twenty Eva Points. They're about as useful as House Points, except you don't even get a cool trophy. I might Fed-Ex you a coffee mug with some sequins glued around the rim, but that's both a longshot and weird.

Chapter Eleven: If You've Ever Listened To Anything I've Said… Now Is _Also _A Good Time

Remember how I said that the story of my summer was over? It isn't. Sorry for the lies, but I promise there's a reason for all the jumping around. There are still three major parts left in that story: The Letter Part, The Tent Part, and The Jilly Part. This is the first.

Before discovering my magical roots, I had three ideas for what I might be when I grew up: (a) An astronaut—this was a huge fantasy of mine, thwarted mainly by Verno's refusal to pay for space camp; (b) A fashion designer; (c) A midnight cooking show hostess. None of these options panned out in the long run, but I did have some fun practicing for the last one.

Three weeks before Harry was set to depart for Hogwarts, at two o' clock in the morning, I spooned a bit of pancake batter into a frying pan, listing to the quiet sizzle. Balanced on a footstool in front of Aunt P's stove, I gripped a spatula, gently prodding the edges of the batter as it spread and took shape. Although I really was hungry, and a perpetual night owl, the late night snack was more of a distraction than anything else. My brother and I hadn't spoken in days—it was surreal. The Dursleys, both scared and angry, ignored me as well. Even the owl clicked her beak warningly whenever I got too close, sensing my resentment. I did not walk to Jeremy's house, or ride my bike around town, or do my summer homework. Jilly didn't call. No one even looked at me. I spent most of my time in the attic, sulking and feeling entitled to it.

I wanted to forget all of that, for a few minutes. Who cared what Verno would do when he found me making breakfast this late (early)? Who cared what my teacher would say on the first day of school, when I hadn't done the maths packet or read i_A Wrinkle in Time_/i? Who bloody cared?

Not me.

I flipped the first pancake as quietly as I could—but then froze, as the bottom stair's habitual squeak sounded. My heart jumped, and I considered ditching the spatula and running for it, out the back door, through the yard, over the fence, between the hedges, down the road, never looking back. But I hesitated a second too long, and a shadow became visible in the hall, belonging to and preceding—

"Odd time for breakfast," Harry said conversationally—hoping to keep things civil, maybe.

Relieved but still startled, I shut my eyes and concentrated on catching my breath. Forgetting pancakes and runaway schemes full of prepositional phrases, I set aside my spatula and turned to face him. Eyes pointed directly at the ground.

"What do you want?" I said, my voice cold even though I didn't want it to be. I didn't want a fight—but things had begun to spiral, and I felt caught.

Harry moved a little closer, the legs of his pajama pants—previously Dudley's— trailing on the spotless kitchen floor. "To talk," he said simply. "We haven't since… we got back. If you'd just let me explain—"

I cut him off, uninterested. "I heard you the first time, Harry. Believe me. I get it."

Shaking his head, Harry tried again. "I didn't tell you everything, Kat. Just listen, and stop—"

"No," I said evenly. "I don't care. I don't want to hear it. You're getting your chance—how can I blame you for not wanting me around anymore?"

Abruptly, I could see Harry's frustration; his anger. He raised his voice, either forgetting or not concerned that the Dursleys were right upstairs. "Do you honestly think I would—"

"Shut up!" I hissed, waving the spatula at him threateningly and narrowing my eyes. A spark of amusement at my weapon of choice fluttered through his eyes, but then his expression hardened, and my brother turned away, walking toward the stairs. He stopped at the last second though, and looked at me again. I stood— arms like ropes around my chest; face pinched; eyes shielded by droopy bangs.

This is my story, and what I say is how it goes. And I say that I did not want to cry right then.

"By the way," Harry said, his voice hard. "Have you seen Hedwig? She's been gone all day, and that's not like her."

I stiffened, biting my lip

"Kat?"

My hands began to shake.

Slowly, the words fell from my lips, like pebbles. Though I could barely hear my own voice, it seemed to resound in the kitchen.

"I… sent a letter."

Harry looked appropriately stunned. I hated owls—i_much_/i more on that later. Me sending a letter via bird-mail is basically the equivalent of the Dark Lord learning to use Muggle computers. "You… you did? To who?"

I felt hollow inside, like my organs had vanished and my blood had evaporated. My legs trembled, and I was afraid I would fall off the stool.

"To Albus Dumbledore."

All the spatulas in the world could not keep Harry from losing his temper over that one.

"YOU SENT A LETTER TO THE HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS?"

"It isn't i_fair_/i!" I cried. "What do you expect me to do in Little Whinging for a year without you? I want to come, Harry, and I i_know_/i I can do it! This isn't right! They've got to make an exception."

Here is what I did not say: i_You are my older brother, and I need you. I have not the slightest clue how to be alone. It's always been us against the world, and I am not ready for that to change_/i_. _

"Do you think I'm doing this on purpose, Kat? Did you ever stop to think there might be a good reason… do you smell something burning?"

And that is why you should never, ever cook pancakes in the middle of this night (morning) while having a fight with your brother.

"Augh!" I shrieked, twisting around wildly, and taking in the sight of my pancakes—all black as charcoal—smoking profusely (profusely!). Not knowing what else to do, I seized the spatula and tried to chisel them from the bottom of the pan—to little result. In the meantime, Verno thundered down the stairs awakened by my scream and by the wailing smoke detector. Aunt P was close behind him. Harry grabbed yesterday's newspaper from the kitchen table and fanned the reeking grey clouds away from the smoke detector.

"What the bloody i_hell_/i is going on down here?" Verno bellowed.

"What did you expect to happen, Kata?" Harry demanded, still fanning. "You send one letter, and suddenly everything's the way you want it to be?"

But my only answer came in the form of a panicked scream—with an enormous i_fwoosh_/i, the pan burst into flames. Columns of fire leapt from the surface of the stove, and I fell, screaming, off the footstool, right onto my back. The air rushed from my lungs, and patterns invaded my vision. Both Aunt P and the smoke alarm shrieked.

Shouting indiscernibly above the clamor, Verno moved in with a fire extinguisher, shoving Harry aside and stepping on my fingers. Still dizzy, I tried to sit up—but the room spun and there was an incredible, frothy i_fwush_/i and a spray of white foam, and maybe I had cracked my head against the floor, because a hot, heavy pain was spreading across my forehead, and I should have made eggs, and I passed out, thinking, i_That's exactly what I expected to happen_/i_. _

(Before this scene, I, Kata Potter, am—as a fully responsible adult—obliged to say the following: Underage drinking is very, very bad and not much fun at all.

That's it.)

When I was fifteen, and we were very drunk, Adam looked at me with clouded, unfocused eyes and said, "What was the best thing to ever happen to you?"

We normally didn't discuss such deep things. The questions we usually asked were more like, i'_Want to hang in my dorm tonight?'_ /i or, i'_What was the Charms homework again_?' /i. I think that was the main reason things went wrong with Adam—the vapidity of it; the way our hands moved faster than our thoughts. We never knew how to properly channel what we felt for the other one into words.

But, anyway. Adam's question.

Being drunk, I believe I just laughed and kissed him, his breath hot and sweet with Firewhiskey, matching mine. But I knew the answer.

i_The year I was ten_/i_,_ my sober self would have replied, remembering green notebooks and the magical flipside of London and the hollow flavor of i_alone-ness_/i. Faces I drew with poignant clarity; Jeremy cursing i_just for the bloody hell of it_/i; thick, translucent glass bottles stuffed with messages for the dead and tossed into a river that led to a ditch; the way it all pieced together at the end, even if, at the time, every day felt like a tiny string—blowing helplessly in the wind, unattached to anything.

I needed that year—I needed to stretch the beginnings of my legs, after sitting holed up in the metaphorical cupboard of childhood for all my life. Without that year, I never would have become the Kata Potter who is strong enough and whole enough to tell this story. I needed, so desperately, to spend a measurable lump of time without my older brother. Because, most of all, I needed to figure out who I was outside of the little sister role I had always played—and would continue to play for many years.

I didn't think I was ready; I didn't think I could do it; I didn't think it made any sense. And maybe I was right.

But I was also conveniently wrong.

Here in the sovereign nation of Kataslovakia, we believe everyone has an unalienable right to _not_ being roused from an entirely peaceful slumber by her meat-faced uncle (who possibly does not even know her name). And when I say 'we' and, I mean 'me'— because I have yet to meet another individual who shares my name. But that's a rant for another time.

"Kill," I seethed into my pillow as Verno pounded on my door. Don't ask why my violent impulses were so automatic at—what was it?—seven o' clock on a Saturday morning. It's not weird if you don't think about it. "Kill with i_rocks_/i."

The door shook in its frame, knob rattling. "Get up, girl!" Verno bellowed. I find 'bellow' a very good verb for everything Verno does. "In case you haven't noticed, the bloody doorbell's been ringing for a good ten minutes, and i_it's for you_/i. Bellow! Bellow!"

Right. So, maybe I'm embellishing a little. But I'm in charge.

As my pillow was firmly smashed over my face at this point, and as the door was still shut between us, I couldn't see him—but, I assure you, the spit was flying and his face was purple as a mystery sweater.

Wondering who could possibly want to talk to me this early—and trying not to think i_I bet it's the wizard-people!_ /i— I threw my pillow aside and yelled back, "Fine! Stop bellowing! Big, sharp, pointy rocks," I added under my breath, jumping out of bed and pulling on my slippers and—because I couldn't find my robe in the Hurricane Kata that was my room— jacket.

"What was that?" Verno said (bellowed) sharply.

"Just the sound of what a worthless freak I am," I replied evenly, gathering my hair into a ponytail.

"Well, hurry up!" he said (bellowed), and he would have pounded on the door again if I hadn't opened it in his face, which was, as I had predicted, purple and bulging.

"Tell your i_friend_/i," he spat the word, as if it was hard to believe I still had friends, "how entirely i_inconsiderate_/i it is to wake a person up at i_seven_ _in the bloody morning_/i and not even offer a simple i_apology_/i or a nice i_warning_/i!"

I blinked up at him. But the irony was clear to only me. "You made a rhyme," I pointed out sleepily.

Verno looked ready to slap me, but I ducked out of the way and dashed down the stairs, taking them three at a time. Skidding into the foyer, tripping over a rug, and nearly falling flat on my face, I threw open the door.

And nothing in my day really made sense after that.

I blinked. "Sherrie?"

Because it i_was_/iSherrie: Sherrie Parker, my classmate and—by the loosest possible definition of the word—friend. She wore mud-brown corduroys and a red overcoat with brassy buttons shaped like turtles. A floppy canvas backpack was strung over her shoulders—when she shifted her weight, something clanked inside.

"Hello," she said, crisp and businesslike, not at all like her usual dreamy self. "Your uncle made me stand outside. That's not very nice."

"Neither is he," I said, because what do you say when someone like Sherrie Parker shows up at your house at seven o' clock and you're wearing your pajamas and you only just figured out that there's a hole in your slipper because the frozen concrete is nudging the pad of your footlike a virus?

Sherrie cleared her throat. "I want you to come somewhere with me. Now."

I did not say, i_But we aren't even friends_/i. I did not say, i_Sometimes I forget your last name_/i. The last bits of sleep were still clinging to the fabric of my mind, and it was foggy. Logic isn't my strongpoint in the mornings. Neither are needlepoint projects, grave digging, or pranks involving oatmeal (three very good stories that I will try to work in later on).

What I did say was this: "Um. I'm wearing my pajamas."

A gust of icy wind blasted us—i_cold cold cold_/i—and Sherrie rolled her eyes. "I noticed," she said, her substanceless voice dry and sarcastic for the first time in my memory. "Sheep flatter you."

Magic existed, I was a contestant in the Surrey Regional Young Writers Competition, and Sherrie Parker could accurately employ sarcasm. Sure. Why not?

I wrapped my arms around my body, as if protecting the pattern on my pajamas. "They're mountain goats, and they're cute, and they're not important right now."

Sherrie nodded once, solidly. "Exactly."

She then turned on heel and began to walk away, beckoning for me to follow. I looked around wildly, at the sky and the ground and to both sides of where I stood, as if the answer to this wacky situation were printed on some sort of helpful sign.

"I'm not even dressed!" I yelled in protest, hurrying to catch up despite myself.

Sherrie didn't seem surprised that I was coming. Absently, she scratched her nose and stared into the white, foggy morning ahead of us. "Doesn't matter," she replied. "We're not going anywhere special."

I smoothed my ponytail nervously. "Right."

I had absolutely no idea what was happening, but I had learned to just…just i_go_/i with it. Even if you wind up walking down Privet Drive in your goat-emblazoned pajamas on a Saturday morning in the freezing mid-February frost, something good might come from it. Follow the randomness. Allow freakishly tall men to take you shopping in a secret strip mall behind an unremarkable London pub. Accept a quest. Willingly toss yourself down the rabbit hole. People spend a lot of their lives chasing magic—but why? Magic throws itself down your freaking throat. You just have to choose magic, every chance you get; choose it over simplicity and sometimes choose it over safety.

Not that it isn't good to exercise caution.

Which is what I did when I cleared my throat and asked, "I probably should have asked this before, since the answer might be 'a dark, cold forest where no one can hear you scream', but where are we going?"

"You'll see."

That was actually worse than the forest thing.

I cleared my throat again. "So… why the field trip?"

Sherrie squared her shoulders. The contents of her backpack clinked musically. "I need to talk to you—something I cannot do when we're at school."

"We talk at school."

"Not like we're talking now. Think about it. Listen to yourself. You're talking different."

In all honesty, I had to say that I didn't notice a particular different in our exchange of words. Sherri was making me increasingly uncomfortable, and I really wanted to turn back. But I didn't want to go home, and where else was I going to go this early?

"Sherrie," I said carefully, "are you, like, really, really smart? I mean, I know you're smart. I've been playing tic-tac-toe with you for the past month, and I haven't won once. You helped me understand that 'I Am' poem I brought in that one time. I'm nest to positive you speak Latin. But are you insanely, freakishly smart?"

For the first time since I'd met her, Sherrie Parker looked rather ticked off. "You don't really have room to be calling anyone a freak, now do you?"

Stunned, I went completely silent, mind reeling. I wasn't sure what to deny, if anything. Was she finally going to confront me about what she had overheard me tell Jilly months before? Had she drawn her own conclusions, or done research? Was there anything i_to_/i research? Did Hogwarts have a website? Monthly newsletter? Maybe she didn't even mean magic—I i_was_/i_,_ after all, quite odd all on my own. Perhaps it was—

Sherrie gave an oddly disturbing little chuckle. "I can see you speculating. Lots of questions, yes? You ask a lot of questions. I've noticed that."

What in the name of banking goblins was going on?

"Yeah," I said, lightheaded and dizzy. "Comes from years of being told not to."

Sherrie laughed again.

I lay dormant for maybe five more seconds, but then erupted. Stopping dead in my tracks and planting my feet firmly, I threw my fisted hands into the air and shrieked, "i_WOULD YOU PLEASE JUST TELL ME WHAT THIS IS ABOUT ALREADY?_ /i"

Sherrie's face betrayed nothing—her customary blank stare. I glowered at her, thoroughly annoyed with my decision to 'follow the magic'. Scrap that. Scrap all of that. Stay in bed. Never do anything. Daydream, at most.

Finally, Sherrie spoke. "I'm sorry I called you a freak," she said. "That was uncalled for. And you're sorry you called me a freak, too, because it's not very nice. There. Apologies. Now, if you're worried I know something about you, don't be. I do. But I don't care. I don't have anyone to tell. Besides, I can get much more out of this by keeping it to myself.

"I rang your doorbell and disturbed your uncle and asked you to come with me this morning because I just wanted to talk to you. You're interesting. You're weird enough to not have any grounds for calling _me_ weird. I like… your company."

I smiled a bit. "Sherrie. Is that, like, your awkward, freakishly smart way of saying you want to be friends?"

Sherrie sighed, exasperated, and rolled her eyes toward the sky. "I thought you just apologized for calling me a freak!"

I itched my nose, studying a pebble at my feet. Sherrie's display of emotions still unnerved me. "Actually, you apologized for me calling you a freak, but—"

Sherrie huffed, looking very peeved. "Whatever. Just follow me, will you?"

I obeyed, walking a few feet behind her. "Where have you been hiding the personality?" I muttered to myself, arms crossed over my pyjama top.

Sherrie led me down a few side streets, in the general direction of Stonewall Primary. The morning slowly thawed, it's cold loosening around us. I didn't shiver so much in my thin jacket. As Sherrie and I walked along, the sky molted its last stains of darkness and gathered the pigeon-grey colour of winter. It wasn't until we were a few metres away that I realised where we were headed: the forest behind Stonewall. The school loomed, an ice-sheathed giant, just to our right.

"You know they're going to cut these trees down?" Sherrie called back to me. I had fallen into a slower pace, wary of being led into the trees.

Vaguely, I remembered Jeremy telling me that—eons ago, when the Twenty Things had only just begun and he still wanted to help me find them. A sign at the mouth of the forest confirmed this: over the Easter holidays, a portion of the forest would be cleared for development. This portion held the tree that had once been Jeremy's and my clubhouse. I wondered where the wood would end up; where the bizarre cycle of life and objects would take it.

Sherrie pushed aside a frosted, leafless bough and disappeared into the tangle of barred sticks and trunks. My slippers sunk slightly into the mud. I took a moment to resent Sherrie for not letting me dress properly, but then gathered my bearings and crept after her.

"So it really was a cold, dark forest where no one could hear me scream," I grumbled to myself. "Brilliant."

But we didn't venture far into the trees. When Sherrie finally came to a stop at the bank of a mucky, reeking creek, I could still kind of see the school, in the fractured distance. Shrugging out of her backpack, Sherrie dug through the pocket of her coat and withdrew a small pad of paper and a pen.

She held them out to me, an offering. "You wrote a bunch of letters to your brother for your Twenty Things project, right?"

At this point—deep in the woods and still wondering what was in the backpack—I was too worried I was about to be sacrificed to some sort of voo-doo tree god to fully comprehend what she'd said. "Eh? Oh, no. i_No_./i It was… a journal, I guess. And it wasn't my real Twenty Things project; it was an accident—"

Sherrie raised an eyebrow, and I stopped.

"We, uh, don't write. It's complicated. How did you even know I have a brother?"

Sherrie shrugged, pulling at the ties of her backpack. "You doodle a lot. You're actually a fairly good artist, you know."

I tried to process the fact that Sherrie Parker had complimented me, but it got stuck somewhere in my brain.

Of all the things I had imagined Sherrie to be carrying—marbles; pipe bombs; a medieval flail—she pulled none of them from her pack. Instead of the weapons I envisioned, Sherrie produced several empty bottles with peeling labels that read i_Mo's Finest Ginger Ale: A Reason to Smile_./i Some had scraps of paper sticking out from their necks.

Sherrie grinned a genuine grin, grasping one of the paper-filled bottles. "The opening of a bottle is nothing," she said brightly. "Yet, without it, a bottle would not be a bottle."

I blinked. "Sorry, but I have no idea what that means. Kat no learn good."

Sherrie's smile remained fixed to her lips. "It's a Buddhist thing. Everything is empty; nothing is born; nothing dies. That sort of thing."

I bit my lip, nodding along as if I understood. "Right. That… sort of thing."

Abruptly, Sherrie stood straighter, formal and sombre. She gestured to the bottles at our feet, and to the pad of paper I held loosely in my hand. "My mum used to take me to do this when I was little," Sherrie said. "She's sort of a hippie. Said it's a release. Letters to no one. They don't have to be long—they don't even have to be letters, really; just stuff you need to get out. Write it down. Let it go."

She tossed the first bottle into the slow-moving creek. I was amazed it wasn't iced over; it was topped only by a thin layer of slush. I stood, slightly dubious about the whole thing. It seemed like a good way to litter to me, but not such a good way to heal my mind. Sherrie was waiting, though, and what could it hurt?

I stared at the paper, and poised the pen above it. Started scribbling.

i I don't know why I'm doing this. I'm still really tired. It's cold.

Sherrie said I'm good at drawing. Mr. M said I'm good at writing. I never knew I was good at anything.

This has been the weirdest year of my life, and it isn't even over yet.

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day.

I don't like Valentine's day. It clashes with my hair.

Who am I writing to?

You. I'm writing to you.

I always complain that we don't write, and now I don't know what to say.

I'm doing the best I can.

Love, Kata/i

Taking a huge breath, I rolled up the paper and shoved it roughly into the bottle Sherrie offered me. Without hesitating, I chucked it into the thick water, trying to appear nonchalant.

It actually felt pretty good.

I watched the green of my bottle—green like a planet; like a smell—bob and swell against the lolling current of the river, leaning into the yielding skin of liquid. It was the crux of winter: everything still dead and lank. Grass that crinkled like paper under my light footsteps. Oyster skies spotted with seamless clouds. Invisible sun that had all but given up on breaking through.

Hints of spring, though, too. The barest awareness of change, like an instinctual feeling of being watched. No matter what, the seasons would never, never fail.

The bottle.

So full.

And I thought: iWe are sinking/i.

And I thought: iWe are clearly unsinkable. /i

And I thought: iWe have only just begun to breathe/i.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Kata," Sherrie said smugly, as if she'd won something.

Love—or something—was in the air. What I discovered at Jeremy's, two days later, was only further proof.

"Jeremy, it's me!" I called as I let myself into his house and yanked off my wool hat. Clumps of snow fell onto the doormat; the descent of the flakes had started up again and I was covered in sodden white powder. The hems of my jeans, which perpetually dragged on the ground, were soaked through. This created an awful sensation every time I took a step, and ensured that I could never properly warm up. When a person's feet are cold, all of them is cold. Due to that, my good relationship with winter was on a hiatus. Spring was starting to sound pretty nice. "And you should know I'm mad at you, too, because I walked all the way from school to Flinker's, and you weren't there, so I had to walk all the way here, which is where your dad said you were. And I'm very cold, and icicles have started to form on the ends of my hair, and I'm going to jinx whoever stole my bike handlebars. I mean, who knew handlebars could even be unscrewed from the rest of the bike? And yes, I said jinx."

This was met by silence, which was unnatural for the Flinker household. Jeremy's mum was a teacher in the next town over, and usually was home by the time Stonewall got out. His little sister, Mattie, was often around as well, with her friends from school. Even though Mattie and I were in the same grade, and possibly had more in common than Jeremy and I, we were never close as children.

I started to plow up the stairs, automatically headed in the direction of his room. No wonder he couldn't hear me; a horrible sound was leaking out from the crack beneath his door. It was the kind of sound that made me want to either run in the other direction or shoot myself in the face. I can't really describe it beyond that; you'll just have to imagine the worst sound you've ever heard and multiply it by infinity.

"Jeremy?" I shouted over the din, pounding on his door. "Jeremy, are you in there? Are you being tortured? Are you being dipped in acid? Scream twice if you're being dipped in acid!"

Abruptly, the screeching and wailing and grinding stopped, and the door swung open. An unidentifiable creature stood on the other side. It was taller than I was, it wore baggy sweatpants and a grungy flannel shirt, and its head was entirely obscured by a mass of uncombed sandy hair.

I let out a panicked shriek. "What are you?"

The creature was chewing gum, and it took the time to blow an enormous pink bubble before answering. When this bubble popped, a few strings of pink got caught in its (the creature's) floppy bangs and hovered there. "Devon," it finally said. "I'm in the band."

"Okay, Devon," I said, trying to calm my heart rate. My pulse rumbled like thunder in my ears, which were still a bit numb from the noise that had preceded Devon. "Where's Jeremy? Did he explode from all that…noise? Were you dipping him in acid? Is the acid in the closet? Does that—"

"Flinker's next door," Devon reported without any sort of inflection to his voice. I immediately began to suspect him of being an android. "He's borrowing chopsticks from Mrs. Chu."

I put my tongue between my teeth. "Why?"

Devon held up a splintered drumstick, sliced almost cleanly in half by what I can only assume was face-melting, stick-smashing rock 'n' roll passion so intense I cannot hope to capture it with words alone. "My sticks broke," he said.

I bit my lip and glanced over Devon's shoulder. A set of aged and grimy drums stood in the centre of Jeremy's eternally messy room. There was no snare drum, but who needs snare? One of the cymbals was dented, but I was sure Mrs. Chu had a nice wok that would work just as well. Next to the drums, a very new-looking guitar was leaning against Jeremy's bed, a pick shoved between the strings along its neck.

In a sloppy manner that reeked of Jeremy, someone had painted the words "Jeremy Flinker and the Untitled" onto the front of the bass drum in large red letters. I raised an eyebrow dubiously. i_I should really have TV cameras following me around_/i, I thought. i_This is too good_. /i

"So," Devon said in his monotone, "are you Rachel?"

I spun around, stunned and indignant, forgetting all about my chances as a reality television star. "No!" I said. Who's Rachel?"

"Jeremy's girl. None of us have met her yet."

My arm twitched and a strange noise burbled out of my mouth. Does not compute.

I underwent a serious internal struggle, debating whether to press Devon for more information or go find Jeremy and kill him. He'd formed a band without me, and he had a girlfriend. When had he grown up? When had this started? I suppose I knew, underneath it all, that (a) The distance between Jeremy and I was hardly new—just newly embellished, and (b) In the history of eleven-year-olds, there has never once been a meaningful, competently-conducted relationship. But Jeremy was supposed to be my best friend. And I really needed someone to be my best friend, as the person to whom the title normally fell was off turning pumpkins into carriages and playing "Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board".

I decided to kill Jeremy later and ask questions now. "And by 'us', you mean…?"

"Milo Omerivic. Ian Franc. Our friends. The band. Who are you, anyway?"

"I'm Kata. I used to be Jeremy's friend."

"He never mentioned you."

I wasn't entirely surprised by this, but a blade of something like disappointment stung between my shoulders. My heart jumped a little as I wondered—did my brother ever mention me to the other wizard-people? Was I a conversation piece; a funny story; a something to miss about Little Whinging? Did it matter to him, now that there were all these chances and possibilities and rubbish, that we never saw each other? Did the pervasive feeling of aloneness hit him the way it always hit me—hard; fast; without warning?

Was he still angry with me?

(Right. Remember how I also told you that I sent Hedwig back without a reply at Christmastime?

I didn't. And that's sort of significant.

I am a i_terrible_/i storyteller.)

Devon gazed at me with renewed curiosity. "If you shove a pencil in your hair, does it stay?"

I was silent (but, for the record, Harry and I tried this one day, and the answer is yes. Other items that "stick" in my hair include plastic forks, Pick-Up Stix, bendy-straws, and wands), but this was just as well, because Jeremy entered the room just then, brandishing a pair of chopsticks and grinning in his usual Jeremy-way. Even though this smile generally made me laugh, I was immune to it. "Hey, mate," Jeremy said, flicking his hair and tossing the chopsticks to Devon. "They're the kind girls stick in their hair, but I reckon they'll work all right—"

Devon cut him off by clearing his throat and nodding towards me. I stood silently and seamlessly in the corner. As Jeremy turned to face me, I shoved my hands into my pockets and my eyes onto his. The fringe of his bangs was tangled in his eyelashes, now; I couldn't remember the last time he'd had a haircut.

"Hey, Kat!" Jeremy crowed. "Did you just get here? I was going to ring you, but your aunt keeps telling me to stop. Did you see the drums? I'm in a band now. I play guitar. Not very well, mind you, but I'm learning and stuff." He was oblivious to my expression, to my hostile body language. I wondered what had driven the wedge between Jeremy and me.

Out of the blue, I remembered something called chaos theory. Mr. Mendota had tried fruitlessly to explain it to my class. Some scientists believe that you can only explain the last thing that happened, not a string of events. By this rule, I could understand that Jeremy and I had grown apart, but I couldn't get my hands around the 'why'. Was it because we'd fought in my foyer? Because I was constantly moping, and searching for my seemingly unattainable Twenty Things? Because he was suddenly interested in girls and music and swearing, while I was still stuck where I'd always been?

I could fully comprehend and accept that I was the little sister, the less important one, the one left behind; I knew that my friendship with Jilly was demolished; I knew that I was a witch and thereby forever separated from the world I'd grown up in. Things were different this year and everyone, including myself, had changed.

But I didn't know why. And when you're ten years old and you don't know why, it's the worst thing in the world.

"Actually, Jeremy," I said quietly, "I was just leaving."

"Wait!" he called as I pivoted to the door. I paused, glancing back over my shoulder without an ounce of hope that anything he said would make this better. "We can find a spot for you in the band, if that's what you're mad about. You sing like shit, but you can probably play tambourine or something. Every good band needs a cute girl playing tambourine in the background. And… well… we could put a really bright light on you or something and no one would notice that…"

I filled in the blanks. "That I'm not cute?"

Jeremy's face went slack. "I didn't say that," he said defensively.

I knew he meant to say something more like, i_People often mistake you for a seven-year-old_/i, or, i_Your hair needs to be periodically evaluated by a medical professional to make sure it isn't forming a conscious personality separate from your own_/i, but I just i_wanted_/i to be mad. This was a chess game— and righteous, unfounded anger could topple slack-jawed curses any day.

I laughed ironically, and turned back to the door, my steps strangely confident and upbeat. "Yeah, well," I shouted as I descended the stairs, "why don't you ask Rachel to be your tambourine girl?"

My hand was on the doorknob—my heart beating overtime from the unwarranted fury roiling within me—when Jeremy appeared at the top of the stairs, seething.

"Y'know," he said, too loudly, "you have no bloody reason to be mad at me."

I blinked, hit with déjà vu. The foi-ay. Come i_on_/i_._ "Didn't we already do this?" I said, the red of anger in my tone diluted by complete exhaustion with this fight and this friendship.

Jeremy glowered. "I'm just saying, Kat. You don't."

I raised an eyebrow, puzzling to myself. "I have no i_reason_/i to be angry with you? I can think of nine, right now."

Shaking his head, Jeremy squared his feet as if preparing for a boxing match. He jabbed a finger in my direction. "Uh-uh. No. You don'ti _get_/i to be mad, i_Kat-uh-rin-eh_/i, because I'm the one you've been lying to, and keeping shit from, and whining to all year—and I've put up with it, because you're my friend, and because… well, you've made a few good points in all the rubbish you've been spouting, but…" Jeremy's voice grew strong then, like steel. "But I'm the one who's not getting any answers from you, Kat. Yeah, you're the one with no family, and you're the one with…"

And I'll just stop there. Jeremy may have said a few more things, but I didn't hear them.

Because… have you ever had the person you thought was your best friend look you in the face and say, "You're the one with no family"? Right after mispronouncing your name?

It actually kind of stings.

So I said things back.

First, I laughed. Sardonically, and right in his face. And then, it all just broke loose. "You want answers? i_You_/i want answers? Okay. But first give i_me_/i some answers. Why would anyone leave the most important wizard i_ever_/i on a i_doorstep_/i_?_ How does that even make sense? Is my name even a real name? It sounds like a two-year-old is trying to pronounce i_Katherine_/i. Where did the glass go? Huh? Did it just disappear into the magical kingdom of Nothingness? And how did it come back? Also, wizards must have about a thousand ways to communicate with each other, right? I mean, even excluding e-mail. So why waste thousands of pieces of parchment and an entire mob of bloody i_owls_/i before just sending the Gamekeeper? Was his schedule all booked up? Could Hogwarts not spare their Gamekeeper for a few hours? Or do they just like killing trees? Is Diagon Alley i_supposed_/ito sound like '_diagonally'_? That's just a generally bad idea.

"How is leaving me supposed to help anything? I mean… i_how_/i_? _He's the brave one. I'm a Hufflepuff. Why can't he at least write me? It'd be a start. Why is Jilly upset with me? We never had a fight. I saw her once over the summer, and we were fine. And why twenty? Seems like a pretty random number to me. Why not nineteen? Twenty-one? Who decided that, anyway? And why is it so hard? And why does it hurt so much? And why do I constantly feel like the answer is right there, but it never is, and what do you i_mean_/i I haven't got any family? And, for crying out loud, will someone please just tell me why I'm even involved an all this? If he's more important than me, and if he's the one that matters, than why bother getting me even remotely involved? Huh? Got any answers for me, Jeremy?"

These are the questions that—to this very day— torment my thoughts. Some more than others.

Jeremy stared at me for a full ten seconds, slack-jawed and silent. Finally, he spoke. "What the i_hell_/i is a Hufflepuff?"

I felt like something had exploded deep inside of me. My face flushed, and my pulse jumped, but I found myself smiling. Slowly and sadly, I shook my head, not even shocked. "Oh, Jeremy," I said softly. And then I left.

Jilly Hanks joined choir in fourth grade, and almost immediately regretted the decision. She was a better singer than I was; talent wasn't a problem. The issue was that when we were younger, Jilly was painfully shy and forgot everything she knew about music when faced with an actual audience. Because of this, she approached the choir director, a man named Mr. Greene, and tried to hand in her resignation. Mr. Greene, however, wasn't the kind of man to give up without a fight. He was intensely passionate about his music, and didn't understand when other people felt differently. Even if she was shy, Mr. Greene didn't comprehend why Jilly would ever devote her life to anything other than choir.

After twenty-five minutes of arguing (in which Jilly mostly stood silently and Mr. Greene lectured endlessly), he agreed to let her go. Before that, though, he had some parting words for her.

"When you quit once, it'll be very easy to quit again. And you'll just keep quitting and quitting, until you have nothing left."

Very good advice, really, but Jilly was nine, and it sort of went over her head. Looking back, though, now that she was ignoring me in favor of Winnie & Co., Jilly couldn't help thinking that he was right. She had quit at being my friend because I was unpopular and high maintenance and inevitably got her into trouble.

As Mr. Mendota had said when we played chess on stage, Jilly was one of three people who hadn't turned in their Twenty Things as of December sixteenth. She quit looking for them after a while. Jilly didn't know why the project stumped her so completely. Her life was in order, ever since I somehow exited it. She had a perfect, unbroken family; she had her new friends and their equally perfect families; her marks never moved from the top of the top. When she sat down to look at everything, however, Jilly Hanks couldn't find the Twenty Things that made her world go 'round. So she simply stopped looking and handed in a simple list, as I had tried to do.

Maybe the above information—the quitting and the uncertainty and our falling-out—acted as Jilly's motivation as she marched into the school library one day after the final bell had rung. Ducking past our substandard librarian, who could often be seen smoking outside the upper school building or napping in the microfiche room, Jilly took a seat at a computer and wiggled the mouse. While waiting for the humming monitor to wake up, she glanced around covertly, as if making sure no one was watching her.

Jilly clicked on the Internet browser and navigated to a search engine. Taking a deep breath, she typed 'twenty things that make the world go 'round' and hit enter. After a few lolling seconds, her screen flashed to a new page. More hits than she'd expected.

The very first was a death announcement. With a couching heart, Jilly pounced on the link. Next to the blurb was a picture of a smiling girl who had no clue that her life wouldn't last forever. It was the same picture Robert Mendota kept taped to his computer. It was the same picture he stared at every night, trying to force words to appear on his lips. The right words. The goodbye words.

iMENDOTA, KIERRNAN "KAILEY" entered into eternity on Dec. 19, 1986. Dear daughter of Paul Mendota and Meredith Mendota (nee Rhodes); dear sister of Robert; dear friend to many. Survivors remember Mendota as an aspiring writer who, at sixteen, published a novella entitled "The Twenty Things That Make the World Go 'Round". After its publication, Mendota built on this project, locally publishing many poems of the similar titles and forming the Twenty Things Alliance. Services held…/i

But then Jilly stopped reading. This may have been because she couldn't see anymore; the connection between her eyes and her mind appeared to have broken. All of her senses felt severed, and her hands shook without her wanting them to. An eerie silence stretched across the library—a more silent silence than usual, seeing as libraries are traditionally quiet—and Jilly held on to the sides of her chair with those quivering hands, afraid she would fall out of it.

It was similar to when I found out about magic—my first concerns were whether Hagrid had said 'wizard' or 'lizard', and if wizardry would complicate my marriage plans. When Jilly read Kailey Mendota's death announcement, the first sane thought that breezed into her mind was: i_She died the same day the Twenty Things were due._ /i

It's funny, the things we think when we're trying so hard not to accept the ever-elusive truth. It's funny, the way our minds protect themselves.

As if by magic.

When I entered the sanctuary of Our Lady of the People and saw Mr. Millerton sitting cross-legged at the front of the room, with his eyes shut and hands resting on either knee, it was all I could do not to groan out loud. "What religion does this church even i_do_/i?" I said with all the eloquence of a ten-year-old.

Mr. Millerton's face was tranquil and slack. His lips barely moved as he answered. "I told you," he said, slightly annoyed. "This is not a church. I don't know much about its history. I took this job somewhat… unwillingly."

"Right," I said, dumping my schoolbooks and taking a seat in the pew closest to him. "But you were never really clear on that, either."

One eye snapped open. I flinched. To avoid talking about his employment situation, perhaps, Mr. Millerton chose to expound on my first question. "This isn't a church," he repeated. "It used to be an air raid shelter."

I rolled my eyes. "How thick do you think I am? We're above ground. And who in their right mind would bomb Little Whinging?"

He ignored the last bit. "This floor is above ground, yes. But there's quite an impressive tunnel system underneath. Rumour has it you can follow those tunnels all the way to London. But it hasn't had a purpose in a long time. City turned it into a homeless shelter—not that this town has a lot of homeless. Not exactly a metropolis. Take three left turns; you're back where you started."

I sighed, blowing my bangs from my eyes. "Tell me about it." Digging through my bag, I located my maths homework and resigned myself to at least an hour of confusion and frustration. Mr. Millerton resumed his lotus position. I shook my head—one of these days, I was going find a normal, uncomplicated friend. "Find me a tunnel to Hogwarts, then we'll talk," I muttered to myself, tapping my pencil against my worksheet.

For several minutes, silence settled. I scratched away fruitlessly at my pre-algebra, and Mr. Millerton… breathed. I grew bored. And Kata plus boredom is like kerosene plus match: a very bad idea, and for the same reason.

"Are you going to tell me why you're doing that?" I finally demanded, chucking my pencil away and sliding my books to the side.

Mr. Millerton sucked in his cheeks. "I'm trying to concentrate," he said through his teeth.

"You look ridiculous."

"You're annoying."

"You're i_weird_/i_!_"

"You're scared."

"Exi_cuse_/i me?"

"You heard me."

I shook my head, fuming. I told you—when Kata gets bored, things blow up. Quickly. "Every time I come in here, I get a headache. I'm having a perfectly normal day, and then you're meditating—"

"Concentrating."

"You're _concentrating,_ and apparently I'm sitting in a bomb shelter, and why can't _x_ solve its own problems, and suddenly you tell me I'm i_scared_/i? Where does that even come from?"

Mr. Millerton stood, calmly dusted off his pants, and rolled his eyes. "You rant a lot. Is that a redhead thing?'

"I'm not afraid of anything. I mean… heights. But nobodyi _likes_/i heights. And storms. Cats. Owls. Whatever! I get scared, yeah, but it's not like I'm a i_scared_/iperson."

Mr. Millerton just chuckled. He sat down next to me. I stood up. "You did the same thing to poor Jeremy Flinker yesterday," he said nonchalantly. The headache worsened. "Kid nearly had an aneurysm. Maybe you need an outlet for your anger. Considered kickboxing? Blimey, that would be adorable."

To be fair, it was true. Not the thing about the kickboxing, but the thing about my tendency to indulge in heated, one-sided arguments to vent my anger. I was replaying the scene with Jeremy. I hadn't gotten everything out in those two minutes of shouting at him. But to be fairi_er_/i, I had a lot to be angry about, and even more to be confused about.

"How do you know Jeremy?" I demanded, suddenly itchy and uncomfortable.

Mr. Millerton shrugged. "Like I said, small town. I know a lot of people."

My pulse slowed. I bit my lip. Crossed my arms. Studied the ground. "What's your deal? Why are you even here? It's not like you took a job opening. There was no i_you_/ibefore this year. This was an abandoned building. Upper school kids came here to get high. That's about it. There was no Lady; no religion-less sermons; no wack-job following me around and taking my every random comment as something that needs to be picked apart and studied. So don't tell me you took a job. There was no job to take. Why. Are. You. Here?"

I raised my eyes to meet his. We stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, he sighed. "I told you already. I lost a bet."

"Yeah, yeah," I said, waving his words aside. "You lost a bet with a mate and wound up giving motivational speeches to i_nobody_/i in a building that goes all the way to London. I heard you the first time. I'm asking why. Why was there a bet? Why did someone need to be here?"

For a moment that seemed to swallow us, he started at me, somehow sizing me up. I gazed steadily back. Just when I thought I wasn't going to get any sort of reply, Mr. Millerton answered my question with one of his own. "How'd you break your wrist?"

"My cousin's a git. Don't change the subject."

Another silence passed us. Then, abruptly, Mr. Millerton stood, clapped me on the shoulder (my knees wobbled), and nodded contentedly, as if our conversation had come to a clear and satisfactory end.

"I like you," he declared, smiling tightly. I blinked. "You're i_fun_/i."

And without saying another word, he strode out of the sanctuary, away from where I stood, shell-shocked. I heard the main door to the building whoosh open and snap shut. A vacant, lonely feeling collected in the room. I sat back down and put my head in my hands.

If ever there was a time for somebody to bomb Little Whinging.

Here is what I remember from when I was little: I couldn't sleep.

Rather, I wouldn't sleep. Dudley planted stories of ghosts and monsters in my mind, and, no matter how Harry insisted there was no such thing, my overactive imagination kicked into overdrive and turned every stray noise into a growl or malicious laugh. While my brother snored, I sat up, a croquet mallet that I'd nicked from Jeremy's house by my side.

In theory, this did keep the monsters away. But I fell asleep in class. Dark bruises marked the skin under my eyes, giving me a gaunt, droopy appearance. Sunken with exhaustion and frustration, I kept to myself and supplied snippy, one-word responses to my friends' worried questions.

After a few months of this, Harry found the solution. "I bet I can stay awake longer than you can," he told me.

I'm competitive by nature.

Though I had, of course, been _trying_ to stay awake all along, there was something comforting about his company that dulled the fear in my stomach. My eyelids wilted. My head pitched forward. I descended into the first good night's sleep I'd had in a long time.

The following evening, we did the same thing. My brother stayed up until he knew I was asleep. I was frustrated by losing, but too revived to care.

He always won. But I didn't sleep in school anymore.

If you think this little anecdote has deep, sentimental meaning… well, so do I. But I'm not entirely sure what it is.

For the next few days, I couldn't stop thinking about Mr. Millerton: his odd behavior; his careful dodging of questions; the way he seemed to know exactly what was going on i_all the bloody time_/i. I wanted there to be a connection, somehow. In my head, I gathered up all the times I'd spoken with him, every interaction we'd had. Disappointingly, I could see no common trend.

Or… perhaps that _was_ the common trend. Mr. Millerton seemed to be a different person every time I talked to him. i_Nothing_/iwas i_ever_/ithe same. It was almost as if he was watching me—analyzing me; kataloguing me, so to speak—and adjusting his own personality based on mine.

i_I like you_/i, I kept hearing. The words tumbled around inside my head like smooth stones. i_You're_/i fun.

There had been a ring of familiarity to his words there—as if we had known each other for years. Decades. Longer than I'd been alive. As if Mr. Millerton and I were old friends, and he knew, more or less, what to expect from me.

As if he'd just decided there was something in me he could identify—a tiny shard of a prematurely bitter girl with which he could communicate.

I wondered what it was, exactly, on which he wished to concentrate.

One night, long after the streetlamps had bathed Privet Drive in muted orange light, in the hollow silence of Number 4, I made my way up into the attic. There, leaning against the rough, unpainted wall, was a tall mirror. Don't ask me why the Dursleys kept that mirror up there—compared to the rest of the house, there was some fairly odd stuff in the attic. During one excavation, I uncovered a box of patterned neckties, an autographed picture of David Hasselhoff, and a glass jug nearly as tall as I was, filled entirely with loose change. At first, I grew excited, imagining that perhaps my aunt and uncle had an eccentric side. But, at the same time, I knew that Verno hated nothing more than abnormalities and Aunt P hated nothing more than clutter. Instead, my suspicions fell on the notion that these bizarre artifacts had been gag gifts my aunt had been too tactful to donate to Used But Not Abused, the local thrift store.

However that mirror got there (for it probably wasn't a joke present), there it was. And I sat before it, staring at my own face. My broad forehead covered with shaggy, frizzy bangs. My small face and pointed chin. My thin, chapped lips and my right front tooth, ducked slightly behind the left as if from embarrassment. In the dull light of the single, low-watt bulb hanging from the attic ceiling, my skin looked white as pearls—albeit freckled pearls. My hair, balled into a knot at the back of my head, looked even kinkier than usual. Soft sprigs of it curled at my temple and behind my ears.

At ten, I was too young for spots or oily patches. I hadn't begun to experiment with make-up—who was going to show me how to ring my round, doll-like eyes with kohl, or sculpt layers of rogue over my thin cheekbones? Aunt P? Not likely. No, I wasn't looked at myself critically, or with ambition to change or correct. I wanted to see what I believed Mr. Millerton saw: something predictable and understandable. Someone who was not so stranded that she couldn't recognize even herself. I let everything slip away from me: the Twenty Things, my brother's absence, my fights with Jeremy and Jilly, my gnawing questions about… well, pretty much everything. I let it vanish. Isolated myself and sought not to be so isolated. I wanted to find the Before girl—the girl who slept in a cupboard and played Monopoly to the death with her brother and didn't even know the word 'Hogwarts'. The person I had been before Mr. Mendota had told me I didn't know who I was.

**End Notes: **The Twenty Things Alliance exists. You may join on Facebook. You may also friend Kata Potter (I have a half-formed idea to update her Facebook page in correlation with this story. So, she starts at ten years old; she ages; she changes her profile picture; etc.). Also, the first chapter of this fic has been modified to include a short prologue-type thingy. It also features another character that won't come up till later—Imogene Lang. Kata's an unreliable narrator: she brings up subjects and characters before they've been fully introduced. I recommend you read it (the prologue), because it might be important… and I like it… and stuff. Yeah. ~*Eva*~


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